


The March to Lordran

by senatorwiggles



Series: Age of Fire [1]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Canon, Prequel, She/Her Gwyndolin, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 73,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senatorwiggles/pseuds/senatorwiggles
Summary: The kingdom of Berenike was the first human kingdom to fall to the Undead Curse.  They would march to Lordran a century before the Flame was once more linked.  Ernest, his brother Bernard, and his nephew Guillaume travel with the rest of their kingdom to the land of the lords in a desperate attempt to stay the curse that has taken the lives of their mothers and so many gentle people.  They discover the connection between the tangible soul and the curse and with it the horrific realization of what they must do to abate it.
Series: Age of Fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685806
Comments: 109
Kudos: 12





	1. Two Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Everytime I see something homophobic or transphobic in the dark souls community, I add another trans character.

Bernard looked out over the fortress walls to the mountain below him, the mountain beyond, and the river that split them apart. A morning’s walk would take him down to the river of Berenike, and in two days he could cross the mountain and reach the great forest that housed the nation of Balder. The kingdom he served, the nation he was a part of, was not a particularly prosperous one, but it had never needed to be. The nation of Berenike was not a nation of excess. It was comprised of people that valued one another, and to value each other each person must be able to protect another. Excess brought jealousy.

They were blessed by a war god, a god without a name who made no appearance before them, and so it was that their small kingdom became known for its incredible soldiers. Yet for all of it, Bernard had not been able to protect the women who meant the most to him. The knight he had squired for had been his late mother. His hands dug into the window frame as he thought of her death. How she had grown so weak with an illness no one could recognize and so powerful that not even those with the greatest of faith could abate it. How his Nana had died the same. He had been knighted as the “adamant,” and yet none of his bullheaded determination was worth anything.

But he was not alone, for Bernard had a brother. When he saw his brother, he saw his mother’s face. Her soft worried eyes, her rounder cheeks. He knew that while his mother had died, he would always have his brother to remind him that they both carried a part of her on. He smiled when he heard Ernest’s footsteps approach. The man reminded him of a very determined dog-- no amount of sorrow could last when he was there to mop it up, and true to his expectation, Ernest quelled the growing grief with a gentle smile and a pat on Bernard’s wrist. 

When Ernest saw his brother’s face, he saw his own mirrored. Though older and taller, Bernard had the very same fiery red hair, hazel eyes, sun-blessed skin, and thick brow. His nose was bent in the same manner and with his heavy brow he had quite the striking profile. His lips were thin and his jaw was wide. But unlike Ernest, Bernard kept his beard trimmed close to his face. He spent a morning every week shaping it so that it framed his jaw and brought out his smile. Ernest let his beard grow to hide his jaw and soft cheeks. And unlike Bernard, Ernest did not have a broken nose, though he thought it made his brother look a bit more rugged and therefore handsome. 

Ernest appreciated his hair, and he let it grow to his shoulders, but it often irritated him and ended up bound in a bun. Bernard let his hair grow so that the wind could play with it, but it was shaggy and was just short enough that he couldn’t bind it all in one tie. His bangs reached his chin, and the rest of his hair fell just above his shoulders. With a little bit of effort, he could slick it back and tuck it under his cap before placing his helmet over it. It very rarely got in his way.

“Bernard?” Ernest left his hand over his brother’s. They had been knighted under different people, and Ernest often wondered if he didn’t love his mother as much because she had chosen his brother over him, but he still loved his mother, and he still loved his brother. Bernard continued to look out over the horizon. Spring was on its way. Their mother always loved the tiny flowers that popped up after the rains. “Bernie…” He gave his brother a shake. 

“She’s gone, Ernie. And we couldn’t do a thing to stop it.” Bernard’s eyes were glassy and glazed over. His breath shallow from unwept tears.

“She’ll be with the Lord of the Storm soon enough.” With another shake, Ernest began to pull away. “Get dressed. A storm is rolling in. He’s coming.” The man walked out of the room no doubt to don his armor for armor was sacred to the Berenike knights. It was their holy regalia in which they would beseech their god. Bernard took a moment to scan the eastern horizon-- storms always came from the west. The sea lay to the west and provided the lord with the rains. He would not see it watching the eastern mountains.

But the Lord of the Storm was a god of war, and their mother had not died fighting. She had withered away as if her soul was departing but her body remained. They had seen the same illness in their Nana, a woman who was the partner of their late mother and had only been known as “Nana” to avoid confusion. Both women had been their mothers. Nana had not been a knight, she had not been a warrior, and no one had worried over her peaceful death. For a moment, Bernard smiled as he thought of her final months. Some days she had been shy around their mother, flirting with her cautiously as if she were young and unmarried. Other days she mistook her sons, now grown men, as her brothers and treated them as such. In her last days, she simply followed their mother around, holding on to her hand as if she were lost. And without warning, her body grew cold, her breath grew still, and she did not wake with the morning light. 

Their mother had died in the same way. There was no way to fight the illness. There was no prayer, no desperate plea, that they could invoke to help. There simply was nothing to fight. No way to cling to their dying souls. No infection that she could have striven to cure, no illness she could have worked against. No wound to recover from. No enemy. She simply drained away.

He would not die as their mothers had. Bernard would not die wasting away without a way to protect himself. There would be no doubt when he died that the Storm would take him, but now he could only pray that his mentor, their mother, would be accepted into the ranks of the rolling thunder. Tears clouded his eyes as he bowed his head. He had yet to move from the window though he knew they did not have time to waste.

Even the light jingle of chainmail did not rouse him from his grief. He could recognize the footsteps better than he could his own brother’s, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up. He didn’t need to to know his son had already prepared and come for him.

The lad, a tall boy for his age but thinner than his father, tugged on his shoulder. He was fourteen and already the height of a man. “Come on, Dad.” His voice was softer and not yet fully broken. Guillaume was his son by choice and not by blood or marriage. Like most of the kingdom, his skin was warm and browned with sunlight. To anyone outside of their nation, it would have been easy to assume their connection was by blood, but the color of their skin was where their similarities stopped. Guillaume was tall and thin, his hair a brilliant blond, his eyes a deep brown, but they were family by choice, and no bond was stronger than that. 

Bernard let his boy pull him away from the window and help him don his armor. Despite being a small nation without great material wealth, they had long ago learned how to forge steel. How to take iron and make it stronger, more beautiful, more trustworthy. If Bernard had a squire of his own, that youth would be the one to help him with the buckles he could not reach, but he had long since felt that a squire would not suit him. His brother was always there to help him when he needed it, and his brother had claimed Guillaume as his squire before the boy could even walk. He had no children or partners of his own, but he loved being the uncle. 

Ernest had often found himself a bit lonely. He hadn’t been opposed to finding love and occasionally sought it out, but nothing ever seemed to stick. He would often claim that he was happy in his solitude, but he knew that was a lie. He was largely content being the uncle to his brother’s son, and he was content with the attempts at romance that never seemed to stay, but he felt a bit hollow without his own family. And now his small family was dwindling. He cried softly, warm tears running down his cheeks, as he prepared what they would need for the funeral. Honey to treat the wounds. Moss to pad the bandages. Boiled water to wash the wounds. He gently placed the jar of honey, the wrapped mountain moss, and the jug of water into a basket that he would carry on his back. 

Though their mother had died ill at home, the men would treat her as though she had died fighting, for only she and their god could know what had happened. Ernest met Bernard at the door in armor identical to his own. The steel breastplate was belled to deflect blows, their epaulets were similarly rounded, as were their tassets. The shape of the steel made them seem a bit fluffed up like a bird in the winter, and Bernard thought Ernest’s beard looked a bit like hay poking out of a tear in a mattress. Without a word between them, Ernest donned his sword and shield. Bernard had already collected his shield and mace. They left the family home to head for the temple in the heart of the keep.

Before their people had come to the land, the temple had already existed. It was barren without statue or relief, but the air within was permeated with electricity. Ernest’s ancestors had found solace in the temple while fleeing from something lost to legends past, but a voice in the thunder led them not simply to safety but to peace. They grew skilled in the art of war, blessed by the wisdom of their god, and lived in relative comfort. Their neighboring kingdom of Balder boasted similar strengths, and their skirmishes pleased their god. Despite their near constant fighting, the two nations had always banded together against outside threats. Such was the will of their god.

The men’s mother was laid before the altar of the Lord of the Storm with the great Flame burning behind it. She was wrapped in delicate linen, and with the aid of the temple’s cleric, they lifted her to their shields. In truth, just one shield would have held her. The knights of Berenike were walking fortresses themselves and boasted great tower shields, but this was their mother, and it was something they would do together no matter what. 

A light rain fell in the mountains as they marched. Though it was early spring, much of the year’s new life had already emerged. The long twisted branches of the mountain bushes were dotted with green buds. The broad leafed trees had already begun to sprout anew with smatterings of flowers. The snow had melted from the dark earth beneath them (though it would likely be back by the end of the week) to reveal the fallen leaves from the autumn prior. 

The two men knew where they marched. It would be a long road, but it was a well traveled one, and one that was well cared for for the treatment of their dead was as important as the treatment of their living. Death was the end of life, but it was not the end of all. Their lord would guide them where they needed to go. Of all the roads in the mountain range, the stone path to the Struck Tree was the smoothest path. Constructed for death, it was built so that two adults in full armor could march side by side with their shields between them. Guillaume lingered behind his father and his uncle. The two men said nothing, and he almost felt as though he were alone. He had loved both his Granana and his Gran, but he had been preparing for this since his Granana fell ill. It hurt, oh it hurt, but he wasn’t swamped in grief like his father was, and he wondered how badly it would hurt for him to lose his father or his uncle. A small part of him hoped he would never have to face it.

The trees thinned as they approached the Struck Tree. It was an unremarkable stag that had been splintered and burned in storms, but despite the numerous lightning strikes, it held. It stood, bare of any bark, with stubby broken branches and magnificent streaks of charred wood that never seemed to crumble. There were no other trees around it for no other trees could survive the lightning or the following fires. There was another lovingly wrapped body, and Ernest’s heart sunk. Another seemed to have been claimed by the strange illness. They must have, for he knew of no battles. The brothers laid their mother before the tree with her head close to the trunk. 

With resolute hearts and steady hands, they began to unwrap the linen that bound her. The moment her face was revealed, both men began to cry, leaning their heads against each other and grabbing at one another’s shoulders. She had not been dead for long, and even now she looked almost alive. Seeing his father break down, Guillaume began to sob along with them. In less than a month, he had lost both of his grandmothers, and they had lost both of their parents. 

But they needed to work before the storm rolled in. Guillaume helped Ernest remove the basket from his back then helped prepare the water. Honey was holy. Honey was the first treatment for a wound that their nation had recorded. It had existed before they had miracles. It was food, it was drink, it was ointment, it was everything. They placed it in a bowl and mixed it with the water. The moss was their most effective bandage. No cloth or fabric could ever hold the same way the moss did. The mountain provided, and as a nation of warriors, that which held back death was holy. 

They dipped handfuls of moss into the honey water and began to wash the body of their mother. Ernest heard the rain before he saw it, but a bruise on the back of her shoulder caught his eye. It was oddly circular as if she’d been hit with a pipe, and he wondered if she’d stumbled into anything. It didn’t matter any more, and he didn’t think it worth it to say anything to his already distraught brother. As they finished, the rain began to fall more heavily. Bernard smiled and turned his head up to let it hit his face. It was a good sign. Their lord was coming for their mother. 

In the kingdom of Berenike, death was a private affair. The family tended to the body and were allowed to grieve, but the storm upon the funeral of a well established member was both a somber occasion and a celebration. Though they felt hollow from the loss, the men and the boy were quickly swept into the dancing in the gathering hall. It was a fierce storm that pounded the walls and shook the building, but with every clap of thunder that drew closer and closer, the party grew more lively. Their mother had died, but their lord had come for her. At the peak of it, the brothers escaped to stand on the roof. Hail pounded against their armor, but they needed to watch their mother pass. 

The Struck Tree was out of their sight, but they knew where lightning would strike. Three bodies had been placed that morning. Two other families stood with them. A man stood alone-- his sister had been wounded on a hunt and eventually succumbed to infection. Two parents held each other while the rest of their family surrounded them. Their infant had not made it into the world. As the hail began to hit more ferociously, Bernard lifted his shield for his son to hide beneath. The couple was not without family, and the man was similarly armored. Ernest lifted his shield to better protect his nephew.

At the first flash of lightning, the small gathering grew silent. They recognized the flickering light above the Struck Tree. They knew when their lord was there to collect the souls of the faithful and devoted. At the second flash, Ernest placed his hand on his brother’s wrist and gently squeezed. For a heavy moment, no one dared breathe. Three families awaited their lord’s judgement, and two had been accepted. It would be a long night of dread and grief for all of them without a third bolt. But they needed not worry, for their nameless god was not a cruel god. The third flash was the brightest of them all. The crack of thunder sounded like the Struck Tree itself had shattered, and smoke rose in the distance claiming the bodies that lay beneath the storm.

Their vigil had ended with the storm’s passing, and with it they returned to the celebration below. The smoke billowed over the hill long after the rain had stopped, and with that fire the bones and the ashes of their loved ones would become one with the earth. It was similar, Ernest thought, to the sacred flame they kept in the temple. It burned with the bones of saints that the lightning did not claim, and he wondered if the flames of their funerals were the same as the flame in the temple. He smiled at the thought that his mothers’ bones might help light the way for their grandchild. 

Dawn came seemingly without warning as the members of the wake chattered on about the dead; the only people who were quiet were the parents whose child did not make it to see the daylight. A woman approached the two brothers and punched Ernest’s shoulder. She was as old as their mothers had been but showed no sign of senility or slowing down, and Ernest punched her right back in the chest. “Oi! Boy, that’s no way to treat your knight.” She smiled down at him, her wild hair sticking out the bottom of her helmet. “What would your momma say if you went about punching old ladies in the tit?”

“She’d say to aim higher for your neck or your nose since your chest is armored.” This woman had led him to knighthood-- she had been his mentor since childhood, and she had drug him across all sorts of nonsense on mere whims. Maria the Restless had first claimed him as a squire and then as family. His Nana had considered her a bad influence, but she had been adopted into their fold nonetheless. The woman pulled him into a hug, their armor clonking awkwardly, and bonked her head against his in a drunken attempt to kiss his cheek. 

“Oh my lil Ernie… She’d be so proud of you-- taking mercy on a drunk ol’ fool like that. And I hope you don’t go like that-- I hope you get to go down fighting like we were meant to-- I--” Bernard gently pulled her away from his brother. No one wanted to admit that their mother had been taken before their eyes without a fight, and for her to say it outloud was cruel. She was drunk, and unaware of her impact, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. Tears pricked in Ernest’s eyes as she stumbled backwards. They were all afraid of dying as their mothers had. 

“Maria,” Bernard pulled her aside. “Ernest and I need to take a walk. Can I trust you to be kind with Guillaume. To  _ not  _ mention how our mothers died?” She wobbled for a moment, her armor and her drink setting her slightly off balance, then she stood stock straight and saluted. 

“Of course you can, Bernie. Lil’ Gui is good with me.” Bernard doubted that, but it would have to be enough. Ernest followed him as they left the gathering hall and stepped into the grey morning light. Water fell from the trees landing heavily on their armor and splashing in the deep clear puddles along the path. The men had no tears left, and the cool air helped soothe their sore heads. They had passed the night awake and surrounded by relatives in celebration, and the weight of it all rested heavily on their shoulders. 

The sun had crested the peak of the mountain as the two brothers reached the Struck Tree. The tree itself seemed untouched, but the earth about it was scorched and smoldering. There was no indication of the bodies that had been left the day before, and the men felt relief wash over them like summer rain.


	2. The First of the Undead

She said nothing at first.

Strange round bruises had formed on all of the dead in her care. They had appeared on the left shoulder or the left breast shortly after death and depressed the flesh ever so slightly. Her fingers sank down as if the flesh had rotted away beneath it, but she did not dare press hard enough to break the skin. But she could not deny the importance of understanding, even if it meant marring the body of the dead, so she prayed to her god that she might be forgiven as she held a thin knife over a flame. A part of her had expected some horrific creature to be making its nest in the bodies or perhaps some sort of fungus or rot, but when she broke the skin, the flesh beneath it was black like soot. 

\-----

“There is another illness taking our people.” Maria walked next to Ernest as he thoughtlessly wandered the path to the Struck Tree. He frowned-- it had been barely a month since his mother had died, and now his knight, a woman who served the Queen directly and held a place on her council, was telling him yet another illness was spreading. “There are no symptoms, it seems, but the body is marked with a strange brand. Black flesh under bruised skin in a perfect circle.” She drew her hand over her chest above her heart. “Every body brought to the temple since your mother has had it.”

His fists tightened as he listened to her. More people had been bringing their loved ones to the Struck Tree than they ever had before, and fewer and fewer were being taken by the nameless lord. He wondered if their god simply _couldn’t_ claim that many dead, but surely he had to as he was a war god, and war brought death in greater droves than this. But there was something more pressing on his mind. “Maria.” He let out a heavy breath. “My mother had a bruise on her shoulder. Do you think…?” 

She could do little but shrug. She had known this man for nearly thirty years. He’d been a wee thing eager to squire when she’d come into his life, and she felt as though he were one of her own sons. “Your mother is with the Storm now, boy.” She looked away for a moment to give the conversation a pause and let Ernest breathe before shifting the topic. “My granddaughter will be knighted soon. I would like for your family to be a part of that celebration. I know she is a friend of your nephew’s, and I would like to invite the three of you for dinner tonight. My sons took down a great beast and are working on butchering it. Randolph still asks after you. He worries about you. We all do.”

Maria reached out to Ernest to squeeze his wrist. While she regretted that the relationship between her son and her squire had ended coldly, she regretted that her son couldn’t seem to let go even more. The way they continued to linger, both of them would die without a partner. It wouldn’t be a tragic fate if they both didn’t desperately want someone by their side, but neither of them had the freedom that Bernard had been born with. A thousand friends could not satisfy either Randolf or Ernest, but a single friend could satisfy Bernard. In a fashion typical of someone her age, she thought it a shame that Bernard was the more beautiful of the two brothers. His beauty would have better suited Ernest, but then it wouldn’t have mattered because she knew her squire. No matter the shape of his face or the angle of his jaw, he would have grown out his beard to hide it. 

“He needs to move on,” Ernest said flatly. He was tired of the emotional drag that came from being around his former partner, and he was exhausted from his mothers’ recent deaths and the strange illness that was taking the land. “I want to move on with my life. I don’t have time to waste, and neither does he.” 

Maria hummed with thought. “I’m not sure it’s being stuck in the past to ask about a grieving man.” But still, she wished that the two men had had that wisdom fifteen years ago, but there was nothing to be done about the past. She almost crashed into Ernest as he stopped on a corner. He was still like a deer but she grunted as she knocked into him. Her old bones didn’t recover from a collision quite as well as they used to.

There were no screams when she saw what gave Ernest such pause.

A man, a younger fellow, stood naked in the path with the burial shroud wrapped around him. He stumbled towards the pair, his eyes wide with fear and confusion, and he fell as he drew near. Instinctively, Ernest lunged forward to catch him. He had never heard of anyone being accidentally declared dead and brought to the tree, but there was no doubt in his mind now. The fellow winced and cried out when Ernest held him by his shoulders, and fearfully Ernest pulled back the shroud. Over his chest, much like Ernest’s mother, was a round wound. It twisted like burned flesh with a soft and darkened depression in the middle of it. 

“Who are you?” Ernest asked in awe and confusion. The man clung to his shroud and began to tremble. 

“I… I don’t know why-- I’m Glen.” He leaned into Ernest’s grip, and without a word Maria pulled off her shawl and draped it over the man’s shoulders. “I thought I died,” he stammered looking wildly from one to the other. The man began to shake in the chill of the mountain spring, and he readily leaned into Ernest as the knight placed an arm over his shoulder. 

“What township do you belong to, Glen?” Ernest began to lead him back down the path, but the Struck Tree had roads to every town and city in the kingdom. He was fortunate to live near the city itself and within walking distance of the Struck Tree, but most other cities and towns within the kingdom would save their dead and bring the bodies in a caravan together. While his hometown often bustled during the funerary visits, it wasn’t unheard of for people to bring their dead alone without notice. 

“Acre Rock.”

Maria jogged ahead of them to the town’s temple. She needed to warn them of this before Ernest and the man made it to the town proper. At worst, someone would recognize him and spread panic. At best, no one would bat an eye, but that was unlikely as his shroud marked him a dead man. As she made preparations, Ernest walked alongside the man with one arm over his shoulder and the other steadying his elbow. He didn’t say much, but the man leaned into him and began to grow more steady. His arms lost their tremble, and his footsteps grew more certain.

“I don’t know,” he began while leaning more into Ernest. He was almost cold to the touch. “I don’t remember being brought here-- I-- we were hunting one of the great deer closer to the edge of the mountains. The creature had charged me down, and I remember the pain, but I don’t--” He grabbed Ernest’s arm with a fearful look in his eye. Ernest met his fear with a look of stern placidity. As they neared the town, they could hear the bustle in the courtyard. The town’s walls were made of stacked stone, and the homes and buildings within were mostly made of wood on top of stone foundations. Some of the more affluent homes were a mix of wood and stone, but only the temple itself was made entirely of the pale grey rock. 

As they neared the town gate, two cleric knights stepped forward with a thick blanket to greet them. They wrapped the man in it and led him through to the streets. For a moment, the man lingered and clung to Ernest-- he feared going to the temple and facing whatever judgement might come with a failed death, but Ernest gently nudged him forward, and he fell in step with his new escorts. As they parted ways, Ernest felt the tension in his shoulders lift. He was not the kind of man to bear the burdens of a stranger easily. 

\-----

Guillaume had excitedly plucked flowers for his hair after his uncle had mentioned their invitation to dinner. He wasn’t like either his father or his uncle-- he liked large groups of people, and he liked being told he was handsome or beautiful or whatever compliment he was handed. It wasn’t that he was particularly vain, though he did take care of his appearance like his father took care of his own, but the fastest way to motivate him was to say something nice to him. And the person who said the nicest things to him was Elizavet. 

He took great care to weave the flowers into small braids to hold them, then he took a rope to help hold back his bangs and tied it around his head. Guillaume smiled when he looked at himself in his father’s mirror. He wanted Elizavet to laugh and tell him he looked like a fairy boy, and then when she coyly asked if she could be a fairy with him, he’d pull out a pouch he’d kept the rest of the flowers in and do her hair too. He glanced around him before putting on his coat and skipping out the door. His father was waiting for him looking as crisp and clean as he always did, but his uncle was lagging behind. 

Just as he was about to call for him, Ernest trundled down the hall in a wrinkled coat and misbuttoned shirt. Bernard raised an eyebrow then turned to his son. “Guillaume, I truly think your knight is helpless without you.” Ernest opened his mouth about to defend the state of his clothes when Bernard cut him off. “Your buttons are wrong, and your shirt is inside out. Come here, you daft nugget.”

“I’m not a nugget!” Ernest protested as he tossed his coat to the ground and began to try and fix his shirt. “I’m your brother…” As he pouted, the two men struggled and bickered until Ernest’s shirt was on right. Guillaume lamented the lack of coordination in his family. At this rate there would be no more food, and Maria would chew all of them out for standing her up. Eventually Ernest got his coat on and backed Bernard off with a glare. Without further prompting, Guillaume charged off.

There was always a light rain in the afternoon in the spring, and so there was always a delicate little stream along the road in the evening. Guillaume took great care not to let his shoes become muddy, though he doubted his uncle would pay attention. His father would be far more careful, for his father was the most careful man in the world. He didn’t bother to look back to see if the two men were following him-- that would waste time, and someone needed to let Maria know they were delayed. 

He stood in front of her family home and straightened his jacket before rapping his knuckles on the old oak door. The archway of the door was stone carved in a way reminiscent of the local black-striped birch trees. Guillaume often found himself looking at it while he waited for someone to answer, and each time he was startled when the door opened. Elizavet giggled when she saw him. Her hair was tied behind her back, and her vest tucked neatly into her trousers. “Hey fairy boy,” she said as she reached out to poke him. “You are welcome to cross the threshold into our home.”

\-----

Bernard stopped suddenly when he saw the light appear in the town square just in front of the temple. Ernest did not immediately process what he saw and continued to walk until the silver circle was right before him. He heard a soft bell, and slowly a large figure rose from the center. The figure wore golden armor and towered over them-- a lordkin. She stood, magnificently, above the small crowd with the image of a sword through the crescent moon emblazoned on her chest. Her voice echoed throughout the streets like marbles on glass. 

“You who have seen the dead stand and walk foresee the fate of your people. Among you, thou who art undead art chosen. Know thyself for the symbol that grows upon thy chest. A mark not unlike the symbol of the goddess, the symbol of the Dark Moon. Know it as the dark sign. Maketh pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know…”

She raised a long thin arm and seemingly from the air produced a silver scroll. With a flick of her wrist, it branded itself to the temple door for all to see. Ernest briefly met her pale gaze and saw her faintly smile. Though he did not know her, she knew him. She knew his family. Her goddess had helped them become themselves, and for a moment he found something familiar in her. With that, she slipped away like mist in the sunlight.

The men looked at each other fearfully as a crowd gathered about the scroll. There were legends of undead, of monsters who roamed the land in the age before the Flame who stole the life of those still breathing. Bernard’s hand drifted to his chest as though he might feel the mark the herald had spoken of through his clothing. As the crowd grew and voices rose, Ernest felt the air about him grow oppressive and smothering. He took his brother’s hand, and they walked somberly through the street in a mire of trepidation. 

By the time the two brothers had made it to dinner, Maria was well and truly chuffed. Her grey hair was tied back in a wild bun, and though her face was pink from fluster she expressed her irritation by being overly welcoming. Guillaume giggled with Elizavet as Maria dumped helping after helping onto Ernest and Bernard’s plates. She doted over Ernest and his wrinkled coat while Bernard tried to make polite conversation with one of her sons. Though Guillaume had lost both of his grandparents, he felt like he still had another. Maria had enough energy for an entire household, so he couldn’t possibly feel like he was missing anything with her around. 

At her heart, Maria wasn’t so much offended that the men were late as she was worried. She had known them both for most of their lives, and she knew very well how prone to melancholy Ernest could be if he wasn’t trying to cheer up someone else. She didn’t want to give him a moment to slip into that sadness-- not while she was around. It was better to have him be a little annoyed with her than to trudge into a gloom he couldn’t escape. She knew there was something very seriously wrong when he barely touched his plate. For years Ernest’s family had compared him to a loving dog who could only be happy when other people were happy, but the metaphor extended to his appetite. Only a seriously ill dog would ignore their favorite food. And they had gone out of their way to cook up the men’s favorites-- Guillaume had lit up like a match in oil when he’d seen the baked fish, but neither Ernest nor Bernard seemed too keen on the casserole they both supposedly loved. It was more telling to her than any words he could have spoken. 

When the dinner began to wind down and conversation began to take the front, Ernest stood to clear the plates without prompting. Maria glared at him, as that was not for a guest to do, but he pointedly avoided her gaze. Randolf stood to help, but she kicked him under the table. If Ernest was so determined to find space that he would clean, then he was entitled to that space. The man smiled as he collected the plates from the table, but it seemed his bid for peace would fail as his nephew and her granddaughter hopped up and began to try and outdo him. Maria smiled as Guillaume and Elizavet struggled to get as many plates in their hands as possible without dropping any. Their little budding romance was precious to her, but their friendship was so strong that no matter where their lives took them, she knew they’d always have each other. 

With the three of them gone, Bernard leaned forward on the table. His red hair glimmered like fire in the candlelight-- he was the very image of a man blessed by the Father-God and Lord of Sunlight. He rested his mouth on his knuckles while glaring forward across the table at no one. “Maria,” he turned his green eyes to her. “How much do you know about the undead?” He watched her as she began to pale. “A herald of the Dark Moon came to our town, and I think it’s a safe bet to say she did so with reason. She mentioned a mark on the breast, and--”

“Oh gods almighty…” Her words slipped from her as she thought of the bruised man. Bernard’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “There was a man on our walk, a man in a shroud, who stumbled from the Struck Tree with a bruise on his chest.” She ran a hand over her coarse grey hair before reaching for her water and sipping it. “He was undead? Have the Lords forsaken us? Bernard,” she looked between her children and her guest. “The queen will know what to do. According to legend, it takes time for an undead to become a monster. So long as that man remains himself, he is of no danger to anyone. It is only when the curse persists…”

\-----

Elizavet flicked dirty dish water at Guillaume who expertly dodged it. Much to Ernest’s chagrin, he had been standing behind his squire and took the brunt of the filthy water. At fifteen, Elizavet was as tall as Ernest was, and though he could not glower _down_ at her, he had mastered the Look. She sucked in her lips to try and hide a smile, but the moment Ernest looked away she was back at elbowing Guillaume while throwing ash into the pot to make a quick soap.

Ernest sighed as he looked out the window. It was dark and cloudy with a thin moon. He loved the cloudy evenings under the full moon as the moon would light the clouds from above, but now he couldn’t tell if a storm was rolling in or if it was simply that dark. There was always rain, but if there were bodies beneath the Struck Tree, then someone would have predicted a storm. He reached his hand out the window to feel the gentle drizzle. A splash caught him from his reverie, and he snapped back to the present. 

“Hey! Cut that out.” No matter how he tried, his voice was always a bit monotone. When he tried to yell, he just seemed to speak louder. It had always been incredibly ineffective at conveying what he meant it to, but Guillaume shifted awkwardly and turned back to cleaning. Elizavet moved to bump him with her hip and knock him off balance, but she found herself bouncing backwards when Ernest moved between them. She was taller than him, sure, but she was nowhere near as bulky. Embarrassed that she’d bumped into Guillaume’s uncle, she turned back to her work.

But before long, Bernard opened the door to the kitchen and called out. “Ernie, get in here.” He bobbed his head towards the parlor. “Let the kids make a mess-- they’ll have to clean it up themselves, but I need to talk to you.” Guillaume and Elizavet smiled wickedly to each other as Ernest rinsed his hands and wiped them dry. He knew what this was about, and while he didn’t want to leave the two youths alone like gunpowder next to an open flame, he knew it was best that they were distracted. 

Ernest listened as he heard heavy raindrops fall on the roof. He took a cushion on the floor so that he could lean against the outerwall and pretend like the rain was washing over him. A distant roll of thunder brought a smile to his face as the conversation began.

“The Undead?” Bernard leaned back in his chair with a cup of wine in his hand. He didn’t touch it, but it felt nice to hold. “Those of us who have seen the undead know our future, and those who are undead were marked by the Dark Moon? But not cursed. _Chosen._ We need to go to the land of the Lords and ring the bells of awakening.” He turned towards Maria who simply shrugged. “So then what, we learn what happens to the undead? Ernest--” He turned to his dozing brother. “You walk in the light of the Dark Moon. What do you make of this?”

“Hey, I didn’t choose to walk in the uh. The Dark Moon… That light... I was born this way.” He flustered, but in a way he had chosen. He hadn’t chosen his body, but she had offered a way for him to be himself. To be a man when he had been born otherwise. Their Nana had similarly walked in the light of their goddess, and their family revered her second only to their Nameless Lord. He only balked now because he was put on the spot. “I uh. I think if she wanted pilgrims, there would be easier ways to get them. I always wanted to make a pilgrimage to one of her holy sites, but the undead is uh. A hell of a push. A bit much.” He tapped his head against the wall as he thought. “Momma had that mark, but the Storm took her.”

The air pressure of the room seemed to drop with Ernest’s statement. He’d forgotten that he’d kept that to himself, and when he stopped tapping his head against the wall he was met with the horrified looks of both his brother and his knight. “She what,” murmured Bernard. He looked betrayed, wounded as though Ernest had taken everything from him. “How could-- but she did not rise again. Was she-- was that-- Nana too. Did we kill them a second time?” Bernard began to shake, fresh tears coming to his eyes and shocking Ernest into the potential reality that their mothers hadn’t quite yet been dead, but they left them for the Storm regardless.

Maria grabbed Ernest first then swept him into a hug with Bernard. She growled in their ears as she pressed their heads together against her. “Listen here, boys. Your mommas were dead. Undeath is and always has been a curse. You saved your mothers by given’ them to the Storm, and don’t you _ever_ think otherwise! Death is the end of life, not the end of all!”

As she ranted, a crack of thunder unlike any they’d heard before ripped through the air. They jumped, startled, at the magnificent and terrible sound. A scream came from the kitchen as a plate shattered, then a loud curse and the worried chatter of guilty youths.

\-----

Glen sat by the Struck Tree. He was the first of the Undead to rise again, but that was not a fate he desired. He had died, he knew he had died. That deer had run him down, and his body had been left for the Storm. Uncertain of what to do, the clerics who listened to the Dark Moon’s decree washed him and rebound him before leaving him for their god. He knew that he would not be taken for only the dead were taken, and now he was a coward for rebuffing his fate. Still, he did as the clerics asked of him, and he sat shivering in the storm as the lightning drew closer.

He did not fear death-- he’d already died once-- but he did fear his Lord’s judgement. For a moment as the Storm gathered about the Struck Tree, he thought he saw a large figure in the clouds. It seemed like some sort of drake or dragon though he had only seen those in the tapestries of the keep. Lightning struck the grounds around him, claiming a few of the bodies about him, and for a moment he was hopeful. The Nameless Lord was still there, still collecting their dead despite his blatant curse. The Storm struck him, and for a moment he burned. All that he was was pain, but in that pain he could see the mountain around him. He could see for endless miles, and he could see the Struck Tree shattered and burning. 


	3. Her Herald: First of Her Penumbra

The surrounding towns gathered around the remnants of the Struck Tree and cried. Bernard and Guillaume had left with the rest of the knights to beseech the Storm for answers, but Ernest had hung behind. He knelt by the braiser in the temple in simple clothing. Grey was the color of the mountain stone, and grey was the color of their nation. The Sun baked the rock and gave warmth to the land. The warmth became the trees and the life that ran among them. The moon shone down in the night, a reflection of the sun, and brought forth the quiet lives of quiet creatures. The Moon was change. Though his people were of the Storm, a being outside of that cycle, his family had long belonged to the Moon.

The Dark Moon had granted them the bodies that reflected their souls. The Dark Moon had allowed his Nana to be his Nana and had allowed him to be Ernest. The Sun had many children, but only the Dark Moon had chosen to change into something else. She had been born as yet another sun, but she never truly was a sun. Her shift from the sunlight to the singular moon was symbolic of her own transition from the masculine to the feminine. The moon’s consistently changing faces were yet another symbol of her life and the lives she enabled others to have. 

Ernest had been born with a body befitting a woman, but the Dark Moon had granted him the body of a man.

He pressed the slate-grey talisman to his forehead. It was a canvas cloth bunched around a stone marble and bound with black thread. His words were a quiet plea. 

_ “She who guides us, who granted us her message, _

_ She who lifted my family from despair, and who brought forth my true form to reflect my nature, _

_ You have asked nothing of me for all you have given, and I humbly plead with great awareness of my position _

_ Show me the way. _

_ By the soft moonlight _

_ And the gentle cricket songs _

_ The cries of creatures awoken from their sleep _

_ The braying of foxes _

_ The screams of the mountain cat _

_ Grant me the wisdom to serve you _

_ And to protect my nephew _

_ Ask of me whatever you will, and you shall have it.” _

He repeated his prayer unaware of another devout in the temple. The man, clad in brass armor, leaned against the door and watched him recite his worry and devotion. On the third iteration when Ernest’s voice began to waver, the man spoke. His words carried through the air like a bird’s song startling Ernest. “She hears you.” The man let out a soft sigh-- a practiced pause. “She predicted this, and she predicted you, or one like you.” He stepped forward and knelt beside the Berenike knight, the morning light catching the thin moonlike crest that ran down the back of his helmet. “Take heart, for the Dark Moon will not abandon you.”

The herald placed his hand on Ernest’s shoulder, and the knight leaned into the touch. He was exhausted, grieving, and unable to sleep or eat, but here was a herald of the Dark Moon offering reassurance. He gave a slight but mournful smile as the herald regarded him. Ernest had expected a herald of one of the gods to be more aloof and haughty, but here was a man like himself kneeling before the flame placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. That man reached across him and pressed his hand to Ernest’s chest above his heart before dropping his voice and whispering, “We walk in the light of the Dark Moon, and I know that I will see you in her light once again. If no hero can meet her challenge, then this brand will spread across all of humanity.” The man paused, his head turned down as Ernest pressed his own hand over his. “I should like to die human, ser knight. I feel fortunate that it was your land to manifest the dark sign first, for I have only ever heard of the great strength and will of your people.”

Uncertain what to make of this moment of apparent vulnerability, Ernest squeezed the hand he held and stood lifting the herald with him. “I’m uhm. I’m Ernest.” He ground his teeth to try and hold back his stutter. He nodded as if that could convey the confusion within him. Should he attempt to comfort the herald? He could not for he did not understand what ill had befallen his nation much less the entirety of humanity. There was a great imbalance of information, and a large part of Ernest felt as though this herald was simply trying to appeal to his hubris.

He had picked the wrong knight for that. But Ernest was not immune to flattery, and he found himself smiling at the knight. “It’s a uh. An honor,” he continued. “To meet one of her heralds. I always want to go-- I uh. To uh… see a holy site…” The brass helmet was unreadable, but the knight still held his hand. Surely he would have let go by now, but he lingered.

“There’s the temple in Carim far to the south. I believe it’s on the way, though you should meet her yourself at the end of this journey.” He squeezed Ernest’s hand before letting go. “Our goddess is a magnificent lord, but she is also very private. Though… I think she would allow an audience with someone so devoted who has traveled so far to see her.”

Ernest swallowed, his mouth hanging slightly ajar before he blurted “What’s she like? You’ve met her? I’ve only ever seen her works. The uh. Miracles. Never an image. I--”

“She’s beautiful. She towers above all-- her grace and majesty are unparalleled. Not even her sister in all her golden beauty can truly compare to the Dark Moon. Her hair is the finest silver, her clothing gossamer like moonlight, and her crown spindled like a dark sun.” He paused briefly as if thinking. “There are those who refer to her as the Dark  _ Sun,  _ as the pantheon revolves around her father, the Lord of Sunlight. It is mere wordplay to suit the Lord of Sunlight’s wishes. Nothing more.”

“If nothing else, I would like to meet her.” Ernest bowed his head. “I’d like to thank her. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be here without her…”

“I have great faith that you will meet her and that you will succeed in the quest she gives you.”

A pit sank in the herald’s gut. He felt in part guilty for what would happen to these people and to all of humanity if they failed. If  _ he  _ failed. His goddess required this, and he could not truthfully tell them that the Fire had begun to fade and that it needed a soul strong enough to bring it back. He knew well that his goddess could not risk giving him all of the information nor could he risk telling them more than what she had allowed. Gentle manipulation was required-- if a war broke out now or if the divided kingdoms of men attempted to come to their own solutions, it would be too late. They would all die and become mindless husks. He could not yet attempt the journey that Gwyndolin demanded as he was still living. It weighed on him like a stone in his gut. His only hope was that a human could be enough to stand in the shadow of the Flame.

\-----

Knight-King Rendal of Balder had rode swiftly to the great carved castle of Berenike. The castle had been partially embedded in a cave system that had made it far larger than any surrounding keep could afford to be. It broke through the trees of the mountain and overlooked the great river below as if it were the peak of the mountain itself. It was an absurd place for a fortification, but he often found his neighbors prone to absurdity. The people of Berenike were hard-headed and bound by their tradition of war, and for as long as history had recorded them, his kingdom had been at odds with theirs for seemingly inane reasons. He had once tried to win the queen’s hand in marriage through a duel, but her determination outmatched his skills. Or so he would say. It had been an attempt to unite the kingdoms, but she had laughed and said that to do so would spit in the face of their god. And then she had flipped him on his head. 

Despite the bloodshed of their history, he rode through the winding roads accompanied by his most skilled diplomat and trusted warriors. They had been followed by two other Berenike knights the moment they crossed from the foothills to the mountains. They flew the banner of Balder high above them as they approached the primary gates of the city. Concordia was well informed of the going ons within her kingdom, and their arrival had been expected as runners had moved ahead through terrain no horse could clamber through. 

More knights joined them as they led Rendal to the audience chamber. His brow twitched at the lack of ceremony or rest. If the rumors were true, then Berenike had lost a great holy site. Their swift movements and pushing him along only further indicated that something disastrous had happened. The queen, a woman he had only admired, sat on her throne with the weight of decades on her shoulders. He balked, for he had never seen her tired or weary, but there she sat leaning on the arm of her throne with her sword ascance across her leg. A knight he did not recognize stood beside her. His armor was polished brass and shined so brightly that he could have briefly mistaken it for gold.

The brass knight chuckled as Rendal entered the room, and a spark of fury ran through him. He was a king, he commanded the safety of a nation, he had run to the aid of his neighbor, and this stranger dared laugh at him? Unacceptable. But he did not become a king through quick temper. His face remained placid as he stared to the queen for answers. 

“As I told you, Herald.” She waved a hand in Rendal’s direction. “He came running. Now please, share with us again what is required. What fate will befall us.”

The herald cleared his throat before speaking. His voice boomed with practice befitting an actor on the stage and his words lilted like bird song. “I am Leopold, a blade of the Dark Moon and a herald bringing her word. A great misfortune is falling upon your kingdoms, and it will spread to the rest of humanity. You cannot prevent this through isolation for all of Humanity is cursed. Those who die will rise again, and those who live will be branded shifting into undeath without ever knowing the peace of death. You will bear no more children, for you have no life to give.” He wavered, his hands tightening behind his back as he delivered the most damning line. “The children among you will not rise when they die. This curse will take your very soul until you have nothing left to give, but children do not have much to give. They will have the mercy of final death.”

Rendal’s face contorted as he tried to understand what the herald was claiming. He had heard news of more stillborn children in his neighboring country, but his own had not yet fallen to the same mysterious illness. Yet before him stood a supposed herald of the gods who spoke with the authority of the Dark Moon herself-- of course something as twisted and absurd as this would happen to his zealous neighbors-- they fought and died for the glory of a lord they couldn’t even name. 

Concordia avoided looking at him, her gaze distant. The words came from her as if they were rehearsed, though she had waited for Rendal’s arrival before pressing for information. “Then, Herald of the Dark Moon, what would she have of us? You cannot expect us to sit idly by while a curse destroys us? From whence came this curse? How do we break it-- all curses can be broken.”

“The Lords sit upon their thrones guiding the Flame, and it is they who you must go for your answer. The Dark Moon does not share all with me, but I should happily guide you to the land of the lords, to Lordran and to Anor Londo. Make your pilgrimage, ring the bells of awakening, and your fate shall be revealed.  _ Our  _ fates shall be revealed.”

“How long do we have?” Concordia spoke without turning to either man. “Our kingdoms will otherwise fall to this curse, a curse we don’t understand the scope of. Legends tell of Undead past who lost their very being and thirst for the blood of their fellow man.” She turned her eyes to the herald, a fire building within her. “Berenike will march as a kingdom. We will be assumed foreign invaders no matter what nation we march through. Preparations must be made to avoid needless bloodshed. We need time to rally our people and ready the supplies for our march. Horses will need food. The living will need food. That food must be packaged and carried. We do not yet understand what our undead will need. Warmth? Shelter? Cleanliness? Can disease spread among the undead? Even then, we will need time to divorce our people from our homelands-- to let go the mountains we were born in. To abandon the shrines of our gods.” The herald did not shrink as she built momentum. “To do as you ask, as the Dark Moon commands, we must uproot everything. It cannot be done tomorrow. It cannot be done by the day after. Nor can we wait for an eternity lest we all fall cursed. How much time  _ do we have? _ ”

Rendal was aghast with her willingness to go forward with this. It was insane-- there was no way this was anything but a strange ploy to invade the southern kingdoms in a supposed march to the west about the sea. “Concordia--” He called out before the herald could answer. “What the hell is going on? This supposed curse? This mad march to Lordran? Where is the queen I fear and admire?”

She turned to him, her eyes burning with anger though she knew it was not him who she wanted to harm. She ripped off her epaulets, her cape, and dropped her breast plate. Rendal watched in horror as she dragged the chain mail and padded cloth down from her shoulder to reveal a twisted scar over her breast. “I am Undead. My nation is withering. The queen you fear and admire stands before you cursed with the same ruinous affliction as her people. And I will do whatever it takes to save my people. If that means marching across the sea to the land of gods, then so be it. I will take everyone, man, woman, and child, to that land so that the lords themselves might aid us. What of you, Knight-King Rendal? Will you wait until your people lose themselves and turn on their families? Their friends? Their neighbors?”

He balked but did not reply. He had never seen her desperate before, and it was more frightening than the brand above her heart. The herald waited for her to replace her armor and take her seat before speaking. “A month. That is the best I can estimate. Three weeks to be safe.”

Rendal was not a holy man, but his diplomat was skilled in the ways of faith. The diplomat whispered a prayer and a message into their talisman by the command of their king. This was an outside threat, and Berenike would not face it alone. 

\-----

Elizavet was turning sixteen. Guillaume hated how they were just a little more than a year apart because she liked to lord being two years older than him for the few weeks between their birthdays. Her uncle was her knight, and on her birthday she would be knighted. Knighthood was the coming of age ceremony for squires, though everyone understood that a youth was not truly an adult until they could manage their wisdom. A young knight was little more than an old squire, but it was still an important checkpoint in the life of a warrior. 

She wasn’t particularly vain-- she would have simply bound her hair up and slapped her helmet on if it weren’t for Guillaume. She liked how he played with her hair and put flowers and twigs in it. Once he’d braided a vine through her bangs and tucked it behind her ear. He made her feel pretty, and she wanted to feel pretty for her knighting ceremony. On the morning of, she sat with her grandfather’s armor polishing it to a brilliant shine. She couldn’t buff out the scuffs of generations of wear, but she could make it so clean that she could sort of see her reflection in it. Though the armor wasn’t initially forged for her and should not have fit, the clerics of the temple had used holy magic created to pass down gear, and it sat on her as though it had been made for her and her alone. Their god was a war god, but war involved the bonds of forged family. Inheritance was important to him.

Her knight and uncle, Randolf, helped her with the straps behind her back that she could not reach. For a moment before she became a knight, their roles were reversed. Years she spent helping him with the buckles he could not reach and helping to maintain his gear he now returned. He looked upon her with soft pride as she stood in his father’s armor. She had favored the sword whereas her grandfather had favored the mace, so she would be receiving the blade of her late grandmother-- not Maria but the mother of her own mother. Polished, clean, and gleaming, there was only one other touch she wanted before they stepped into the temple hall, and as if on cue, there was a light knock on the door.

Without waiting for a response, Guillaume popped in with a bright smile on his face. When he saw her, he melted into a dopey grin. Like her, he was well dressed and clean, but today he didn’t have any flowers in his hair. “Where’s my fairy boy?” She pouted. “Who’s this human?” 

He ducked his head down and scuffed his boot against the ground. “Aw Elizavet, I didn’t want to be prettier than you…” He looked back up at her with a gleam in his eye. “Besides, I’ve got something for you…” Randolf stood back and watched with interest as Guillaume pulled out a delicate woven cord from his pocket. It looked like a necklace with rose quartz beads knotted every few inches. Elizavet stared down at it before slowly taking it from her friend’s hands. She didn’t know of anyone who made beads in town, but if anyone would go out of town to learn something as trivial as that or to collect those beads, it would be her Guillaume. 

“Did you make this..?” It was absolutely beautiful. Though some of the beads were a bit lumpy and none of them were the same size, she thought the variation made it even prettier. Guillaume only beamed and nodded filled with pride. He’d achieved what he’d gone there to do-- he’d made Elizavet happy. She grabbed his hand with the strand still in hers, and shook him slightly. “Put it in my hair! That’s what it’s for? Please Guillaume! You make everything so pretty!”

Too happy to really talk and too fluffed up by her praise to even try, he waited for her to kneel so he could braid the beads through her long brown hair. They’d be visible to everyone until she put her helmet on, and since he wanted her to be as pretty as possible, he worked quickly to braid her hair around her head and pull it into an intricate bun by the nape of her neck. It was a simple task for him to braid the beads so that they looked like a fruiting vine through her thick locks of hair, and when he was done he stood back and let out a loud sigh. She giggled at him with a knuckle to her mouth. It wasn’t often he was at a loss for words, but if she was that pretty she wanted to see herself. 

She turned to her knight-uncle who had predicted this and held up a mirror for her. His heart melted as his niece’s eyes glittered like a lake in the sun. She squealed and turned on Guillaume, grabbing him in a hug and kissing his cheek. The boy turned bright pink before kissing her back and bolting out the door. Randolf laughed as he ran, but his niece really did look like minor royalty. A chime rang, and the knight and squire stepped into the temple.

The Flame burned behind the altar of the storm. Four knights from various townships stood to the sides of it with her knight standing in the middle. Randolf held his sword and shield in front of him as Elizavet kneeled before the altar. 

“Squire to the Meandering

Torchbearer of laughter

Vanquisher of gloom

And champion of good cheer

Elizavet we have heard of your deeds and the joy you bring.

Joyous you have been, and Joyous you have been named.”

Her knight, Randolf the Meandering, stood still as two of the visiting knights to either side of him collected her grandmother’s sword and her grandfather’s helmet from the altar. As she had seen done before and as she had practiced, she waited with her head bowed as one of the knights gently placed the helmet upon her head, then with her hands raised she waited for the second to place the sword in her hands. It was heavy in her arms as the knight lowered it for her to take. It wasn’t any heavier than the blade she had trained with, but it was heavy with the expectations of her family. The titles of those who had borne the blade before were carved on the handle-- spirited, vivacious, morose-- and hers. Joyous. It was her title, and she couldn’t have asked for a better one.

The titles were chosen after a prominent trait. It was not uncommon for knights to share titles (titles like ‘stalwart’ were particularly common), but she knew of no one in her township who had been called the joyous before. That her happiness is what set her apart from the others filled her with sunshine. To be known for something as pure as being happy was the greatest honor she could imagine, and even then there was no containing her radiating joy. She giggled as she stood, a full fledged knight of Berenike, and looked to Guillaume who was still kneeling with the crowd and beaming up at her. She wasn’t the only one who was joyous, and she couldn’t wait the year to see what title he would get. She would have named him “the Beautiful.” The end of the ceremony would see her leave the temple on her own as those gathered stood silently. She was a knight in the eyes of their lord and her people, and she would be the last fully human squire to be knighted.


	4. Estus

Horses were an uncommon site in Berenike. They were good for roads, but the mountain favored smaller and more surefooted creatures over the large delicate beasts. The only people who invested in such animals were the merchants who traveled to the more prosperous cities of Balder. Most others made due with asses or oxen. Bernard could remember the first time he’d seen a horse-- the sleek black coat and bound mane had seemed surreal to him, like a creature from myth. His first thought had been that someone had managed to breed one of the smaller wild deer with an ox, but the creature had an intelligent look to it. Far too intelligent for a deer or an ox. It was lithe like the deer though, but muscular like the ox. It had chomped at its bit in boredom while it pulled some foreign carriage through the town streets.

That was before Ernest had even been born. Now nearly forty years later, a rider came from the keep. Their horse was brown and dusty, their hooves covered in mud with sweat foaming where the saddle met their body. It wasn’t as awe inspiring as the first time, but a rider could only mean news from the capital. An unhindered individual could clamber up rock faces, through brush, and down unsteady hills, but a horse had to tiptoe through muck or stick to the roads if they needed to move quickly, but a messenger with many destinations would grow tired traveling from township to township, and though it would be slower a horse could carry them further for longer. This horse had clearly taken their rider a great distance.

He watched as the rider dismounted with a grimace and walked stiffly to the temple past the silver scroll the herald had left behind. When the man did not return, Bernard turned back to the idle task that had brought him to the square. Knights still had to be productive in strange times of peace, and he needed to find a buyer for the meat of his next hunt. It was uncommon for a knight to turn to farming or other tasks and typically considered beneficial for one to turn to hunting when the sword was not needed even if they were privy to the tithes collected by the temple. The skills in moving silently and delivering a quick and certain death with a bow were very applicable in their true calling. But because of how knighthood was seen as a holy calling and how useless their skills were outside of war and death, there were fewer knight families than other professions.

Bernard stood by the stall of an older gentleman. He knew this man to have a large family and though he typically sold cloth and vegetables, he would be a likely buyer. He had a round face and short tightly curled hair, and when he saw Bernard approach him with his gentle smile, he lit up. “Your son’s birthday is coming up-- don’t you think I forgot!” His teeth had yellowed as all teeth do with age, but despite owning a stall in a part of town that always saw dirt turn to mud in the rain, the man was immaculate. His cleanliness was a part of what drew Bernard to him.

“Yes it is,” he replied while reaching to touch one of the bolts of fabric displayed in front of the man. It was coarse but not a fiber he recognized. “I plan on bringing him with me on my next hunt, and I want him to learn as much as he can, but I cannot abide by needless slaughter.” He shifted to feel another fabric, a coarse burlap that felt slightly less terrible. This was his ritual when he visited the man. Idle and short conversation while he touched every fabric. “I have only my son to feed and sometimes my brother,” he flashed a smile. “But you have many, and I do so appreciate the reliability of your needs.” The merchant smiled with his lips tightly pursed. He knew what was coming, and he couldn’t say no. Not to Bernard. “Are the prices of the last hunt still agreeable to you?”

His words were stilted and a bit formal, but the glint in his green eyes and his sly smile were enough to indicate his good intentions. The merchant shook his head. “Ah Bernard, you know you sell too cheap to a man like me, but I will not say no. Not when you bring meat to our table. When you arrive with more than--” the air seemed to eat the man’s words. For a moment, he looked around in fear and confusion, but the temple had a tendency to silence the town without warning whenever there was an announcement. In better times, it would have been the birth of a child or the marriage of lovers, but the shadow of the curse and the Dark Moon’s herald still hung over them.

**“By order of the Queen Concordia and the Dark Moon, those branded are to begin preparations for the great pilgrimage. By the fortnight we shall march as one.”**

Bernard’s heart sunk as the man looked towards his chest. He had not spoken outside of his family about the mark, yet the merchant seemed to guess. When his voice was returned and filled with sorrow and remorse, he didn’t dare meet Bernard’s eyes. “Will you still be going on that hunt?”

\-----

“Atlas.” Concordia snapped and a servant brought a thick leather bound tome. She stood around a grand table with her advisers, her council, and her neighboring kingdom’s diplomat and councilmen. The book was more a work of art than it was a functional item, but it was the most complete atlas Berenike had. With a prayer granted to royalty past, she raised her talisman and drew a golden circle over the table. A knight could not be the commander of her people without great faith, and in mere moments the atlas had been recreated before her. All things were possible within the light of the Sun and the winds of the Storm. 

Balder and Berenike were on the northern end of what was considered arable land. Too far north led to the frigid plains, and they did not know if anyone lived there. To the east of Berenike was a great forest that housed the kingdom of Balder. The forest continued on into swamps and grasslands filled with rivers and lakes, but the information on the nations there was both outdated and irrelevant. Anor Londo, the land of the lords, was far to the southwest. There was a great sea between Berenike and Lordran, and to go north would needlessly increase how far they would need to march. They would travel south to reach Lordran. 

“The terrain is likely similar to what we have noted, but I have very serious doubts that the kingdoms marked on this atlas remain today.” The mountain faded into more forest to the direct south, but the river Berenike fed into the great sea. The large delta that came from it was likely fertile, and it was an easy assumption that people might live up the river there. Further south, the mountains picked back up as if a larger mountain range had simply been smudged. The atlas marked rolling hills with the kingdom ‘Catarina’ written in flowing letters. It was there that the atlas failed her. There was no information on the land or the potential nations south of Catarina, and she was ashamed of her lack of worldly knowledge. 

A soft cough broke her from her inner turmoil. The herald reached out and began to draw lines in the recreation with his own talisman. “Catarina very much exists. To the east of Balder is the growing kingdom of Courland, and south of that is the magical stronghold of Vinheim. It is for the best that we need not cross Vinheim-- they were favored by the Duke and have a tendency towards heresy in favor of personal gain. The great sea is largely landlocked, so you will be able to travel around it. Anor Londo is here--” he pointed to the western edge of the drawn sea. “It sits upon an island in the strait that connects your sea with a far larger ocean. If you wander too far south of Lordran, you will encounter the great swamp somewhere along the coast. This is to be avoided. Should you travel south around the ocean, then you will pass into the lands of Catarina, Thorolund, and Carim before crossing into the kingdom of the gods.”

“And what can we expect of that, Herald?” Concordia frowned heavily at the man. “We cannot simply march blindly through two kingdoms. My people grow uneasy as they are without sign of their loved ones turning into the hollowed creatures legend speaks of, and a march around the sea could take over a year with the entire kingdom moving as one. We are not discussing an invasion force that might move swiftly without resistance. This is the mass--” her words caught in her throat. She took a moment to breathe and ease her thoughts into speech, and when they came her voice was softer with grief. “This is the mass exodus of my people. Ten thousand people, only a fraction of which are knights. Even if we march in groups of a thousand, our very migration will be seen as an act of war. What then, Herald? Do we fight our way through the living to do as your goddess bids? Do we damn neighbors who we have never known to our own fates as we cut our way to the land of the lords?”

Not once had this queen broken, and Leopold could only know great admiration for her. Even watching her, he could not comprehend what great tragedy was truly befalling her and her kingdom. It was not so simple as understanding she and everyone she knew was living on borrowed time, but her culture, her history, her people’s future was being wiped out in one painful swoop. And she was asking him, an outsider, for advice. Goddess forgive him for his moment of weakness.

“Dear Queen, I recommend only sending those branded. The more swiftly they reach their destination unhindered by the living, the more likely the living will be saved. I have no doubt in my heart that the goddess has a solution, and your great order of knights should certainly please her and satisfy whatever requirements she may have.” It felt like giving false hope, like telling a child that their beloved pet would return to them, but he didn’t have the strength to tell her otherwise. 

\-----

“What about Guillaume?” The boy stood in the hallway listening to his uncle and father talk. He didn’t intend to spy on them. He had _intended_ to simply walk into the kitchen and take a handful of nuts, but then he heard his father whispering harshly and his uncle failing to whisper back. “When we pack to leave-- this is for the undead, and he’s still living. I uh. I don’t think he should go. We can uh. Find someone who can--”

“Ernest.” His father’s voice came pointed and strained. “He is not your son. You are not the one who has to make that decision.” Guillaume gingerly touched his chest where the bruise-like mark had begun to form. He hadn’t thought much of it-- both his father and his uncle had one, so it had seemed obvious he’d be going with them even before his brand purpled his flesh. He remembered the fear and relief on his father’s face each morning when Guillaume still had no mark, but a part of him had always known he’d be cursed alongside them. So he stepped through the door with his head held high.

“I’m coming with you.” Ernest jumped at his sudden words, but his father simply looked at him. “You can’t leave me here-- even if I were alive you couldn’t just leave me behind! I’m almost a knight, and part of being a knight of Berenike is doing crazy things like this!” His voice scratched as he reached too high a pitch. “And I want to see the world-- this is the best time, all things considered! A march with the rest of the knights of Berenike for a pilgrimage? Even without this undead stuff, can you think of a better way to go? Or would you leave me here, isolated and alone?” Bernard opened his mouth to speak, but Guillaume raised a finger and off his shirt. “Besides,” he said. “I’m undead. Just like you.”

\-----

Concordia knelt in the deep chambers of the temple far within the mountain. Water poured from cracks above after each rain, and light shone down from a series of mirrors placed in the chimneys by people long past. In the center of the room surrounded by water and moss was the bonfire of Berenike. Each nation had a singular bonfire granted to them by holy means. The smaller temples held bonfires that burned the bones of local saints-- people who the Storm had deemed powerful enough to continue the light, but this bonfire was far older than the others. This was the temple her people had stumbled upon generations before her. This was the room where her order had been founded, and the bones that burned before her now were the bones of monarchs.

So often she found herself shivering, cold and unable to warm herself. She had gone so far as bringing her hounds into her bed with her, but even then she shivered unable to sleep. Only before the fire could she find warmth, and now it seemed to call to her. As she reached out her hand, a part of her screamed that the fire would only burn her, but she ignored it and placed her hand as though she meant to caress the flame. She felt only warmth as the fire lapped around her hand and wrist. It was a warmth that soaked into her bones, and she wanted to step in it and soak it all up, but she did not.

After lingering and feeling comfortable for the first time since the brand had appeared on her chest, she pulled back her hand. It shined as though her gauntlet had been cleaned and some oil remained upon it, but when she brought it closer to her face to look, she saw a strange glowing liquid. It smelled, oddly enough, like a warm summer day. On some impulse she couldn’t explain, she licked it. Warmth ran through her, and she felt more alive than she had in years. Her cheeks flushed with color as blood returned to the surface, and she stuck her hand back into the flame, cupping it and hoping for more of the strange liquid.

What she pulled from the bonfire looked like liquid flame. She drank from it and felt her hope return to her. A journey with this would be do-able. Her people would find rest and peace along the bonfires in ways they never had before, and the once impossible task was now within reach. Her homeland didn’t have to die. Her people did not need to be wiped out. Her culture and history could live on. The lords truly did provide.

\-----

On his fifteenth birthday, a cool spring morning, Guillaume was given permission to bear the armor and weaponry of his late grandmother. He was not yet a knight, he bore no title, and he would not yet march in it, but he was granted the right to wear it into battle. He didn’t eat anymore, but neither did his father or uncle. Neither did Elizavet or Maria. He sat on the roots of an old tree as his remaining family lifted a heavy trunk to the back of a cart. His grandmother’s armor. Some of the still living had offered up their oxen and carts to those who were leaving, and in return, well. They wouldn’t be returning. Their homes were left unlocked. 

Elizavet stood gleaming in the morning sun looking wistfully over the road behind her. They both knew that neither of them would ever come back, and while it stung they were handling it with far more grace than the others. Maria traveled from home to home to press kisses to her living grandchildren leaving them small trinkets of affection in her absence. Some were so small that they would never know her, but she would never forget them. Ernest had already shifted from mournfully looking over his homeland to securing the packs in the cart and the harness on the oxen. It was a placid creature that didn’t seem to mind the man’s hovering.

Bernard’s jaw had set as he ground his teeth. He wondered if his beard would grow any more, the idle thought lightening his dark mood. All that was left to do was to wait. The clerics would call for them, many joining themselves, bless them with strength and favor, and then they could depart. Then they _had_ to depart. Guillaume watched as his father took his uncle’s hand and squeezed it, and when the chimes echoed, they went to the temple together.

Some part of him thought that only knights would be the ones affected. Surely those in power would not have demanded farmers and artisans to march on this path. Traders would have made excellent pilgrims since they already crossed such great distances, but the town center was filled with people of all trades and livelihoods. The young upheld the elderly, parents kissed children goodbye, families parted, and all who remained were branded. Three knight families lived in the township, his own, Maria’s, and the last knight of a long line who had no one to pass his armor to. He was older, and he tended to the temple in times of peace. His armor was to be donated to a knight without kin.

A cleric raised her talisman in a thin hand, her countless years etched on her face like a story told on skin. “The Lord of the Storm grants us the wind at our back. The Lord of the Sun grants us warmth upon our travels. The Lord of the Moon grants us the wisdom to succeed. Three pillars aid us, and through our queen, Concordia the Magnificent, a gift has been bestowed upon us. The Flames will see us through and offer us a gift themselves. Seek out the Flame like you seek out water, and collect the warmth in your hands. See to it then to collect the warmth in your flasks, and should you have none, the temple has provided.” She then gestured to a table by the temple’s entrance where a merchant laid out near identical glass flasks with wood and leather stoppers. 

Some families returned to their homes to retrieve their own bottles and flasks, though they were permitted to only use ones of a similar size to the vials by the temple. Wanting to let go as much as possible, Ernest took a vial from the table. He took his place in line, and when the time came he held his hand in the fire. Much like Concordia, he felt a warmth he hadn’t known in months. He felt as though he were returning to life, and much like Concordia he immediately licked his hand clean. Unlike Concordia, he savored the liquid heat, the ‘estus’ as it would soon be called, and kept it trapped in the vial. He wanted it desperately, but he bore the fear of judgement. Of taking too much. His was not a new discovery, and if all took from the flame without thought, what would become of the flame? Could they drink the flame dry?

Bernard greeted him when his flask was similarly filled. Like his brother, he had opted to let go. Only Guillaume took the time to make something out of his flask. He’d run home like a deer bounding over fences and carts to look through the liquor cabinet. His granana once had a simple but beautifully colored flask she kept her whiskey in. She didn’t drink much, but she kept the flask with her like a lifeline. He used to see it hanging on her belt completely empty or filled with water, and on one occasion she had handed it to him thinking it was filled with water. He was seven. He spat it right back out onto her in surprise. She never made that mistake again. 

But it was a comfort object for both her and for him, and he wanted to take it with him. The steel had been enameled with blues and reds with the depiction of the sun over the sea beyond the mountains, and when he held it he almost felt as though he was taking her with him. Elizavet smiled at him as he darted back towards the temple-- there was still a long line and he had no need to fear being left behind, yet still he ran like a fool. She was glad he was coming with her.

When the flask filled with the liquid flame, it did not glow like the glass did, but it was warm in his hand nonetheless. He was still so filled with energy that he didn’t notice the effects of the flame. When he held it up to the light, he watched a small dribble of liquid run down the lip, over the sun, and into the ocean. He caught the drop as it fell in his mouth and smiled. It tasted like sunshine. 

  
  



	5. Departure

That morning they left marching in units. The first to leave were scouts on horseback. They had left before the rest of the blighted army to send word to outposts and to alert whatever kingdoms that might spring up between the knights of Berenike and the land of the lords. Ernest didn’t see any of that. What he saw instead were empty homes and crying families. Children were left behind in droves as their parents marched into the streets, and while both knew that they’d never see each other again, they lied to themselves and each other just to buy just a little more precious comfort. 

Elizavet knelt by a young girl, her little sister, and stroked her hair. Ernest didn’t want to hear what she said, but her words wormed their way into his ear. “Be good, Sasha.” Her gloved hand running through the child’s dark locks. “If I come back and hear you’ve given dear miss Marigold trouble,” her words faded out with the girl’s sudden blubbering. He would like to have moved on by then, but they waited for Maria and the rest of her undead family. It was easy enough for Ernest to compartmentalize the fact that they would never return as this march felt similar to any other march to war. The only real difference this time was the distance they needed to travel and the fact that they weren’t _trying_ to start fights. When he thought of it like that, it seemed do-able. Surely whatever task the lords would bequeath them would pale in comparison to this.

Maria clearly did not feel the same. She stumbled from her door, her foot catching on the frame, and barely caught herself before crashing to the ground. Her eyes were bleary and red, and her grey hair more frazzled than usual. Randolf and her two other sons followed behind her, but Randolf was the only one in armor. Ernest gave her a small smile before looking forward down the road, and for once he was glad he had no children. He had no family to leave behind, and everyone he cared for would be with him. He was almost eager for this journey. With Guillaume sitting at the front of the cart learning how to drive the ox, he couldn’t imagine that this might be the end of his people. Undead or not, they were still themselves.

“The Sun shines upon our journey!” A cleric knight raised their hand from the front of the growing crowd and projected their words. “We will travel until our beasts of burden grow weary!”

The ox snorted and swatted its tail to and fro. It seemed eager to march or at least bored of standing still. Ernest was lost in thought with his eyes to the sky and the mountains when a hand on his arm jarred him into the present. A man he did not know stood by him in clothing he did not recognize. A man who was just a bit taller than him with long limp black hair, piercing grey eyes, and uncomfortably pale skin that would burn swiftly in the sunlight. He wore a clean white shirt tucked into equally clean canvas pants and hardy but worn boots with wide blue fabric wrapped around his waist like a skirt. 

“Hello ser knight.” He withdrew his hand the moment Ernest pulled away. Ernest recognized that voice, but he didn’t understand what the herald was doing there with him without his armor. The herald raised his hand to block out the sun as he scanned the gathered people. “Three knight families of your town yield seven knights, but there are far more in the capitol. In total, two thousand knights and three thousand other undead march to the land of the lords. Five thousand of your people move together as one.” He looked back to Ernest who stood still and uncomfortable. 

The numbers made him feel sick. Having that information made it feel a little more real where before it felt as though this curse had only affected his hometown and not his people. But a man, a foreign man who looked nothing like him with his ghostly skin, stood before him telling him the scope of his country’s damnation. Ernest hadn’t eaten for two weeks, but he felt as though he might wretch. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?” He would have rather not known.

The man picked up on Ernest’s tone and glanced away apologetically. “I find it incredible, and in better times I think this would have been a marvel to celebrate. Your people so quickly come together where others would have grown hateful and suspicious, but here you stand a man undead parting peacefully from the loving living. I cannot imagine my homeland could ever be so gentle.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed ever so slightly. “My name is Leopold, and before I was a blade of the Dark Moon, I was a Vinheim scholar.” 

Ernest awkwardly placed his own hand over his chest and bobbed his head-- the way of his people was to clasp hands in greeting as a show of good faith, and the strangeness of the foreign gesture set him off balance. Still, he mirrored him as mirroring had gotten him farther than his intuition when it came to his fellow man. “You're marveling at the death of my people, Leopold.” Five thousand strong… Ernest scanned the mountain behind him. The last census had reported ten thousand people in their tiny country, a country they had held through the blessings of a god and the understanding of the terrain. Without the knights, there would be no one to pass down the god’s blessings. Without the knights, there would be no one to protect the kingdom from robbers and bandits. There would be no one to cut down the great deer to the west. If the people survived, it would still be the death of their religion. 

“Ernest,” Leopold’s voice was soft. “A tragedy can still be a marvel, but I am here to help ease… to help soften the blow.”

“Why are you here, herald?” He met the man’s sympathetic gaze. “Here with me. Talking. About how my people are all… dying.” Ernest pressed his lips together willing himself not to pick up his brother’s habit of grinding his teeth. “This curse will spread. It will spread before we even make it to Anor Londo. On foot alone on even terrain a single man might make it before the second month, but five thousand people with oxen and carts. Old people. Young people. Fragile and hardy. Marching through hills and unknown kingdoms. In a single month, five thousand of my people fell to the curse. In another month it might be eight thousand. Maybe more. Before we even make it to the land of the lords, my homeland will be undead. How long until we undead lose ourselves and fall to murder for whatever source of life it is we crave? How long--”

Leopold placed his hand on Ernest’s wrist again and stared deeply into his eyes as if the overwhelming contact might better convey his intention. “I came to you as someone with the favor of the Dark Moon. I sought your company on that simple connection alone. You are strong, you are faithful, you are brave, you are kind. I do not know you, but I recognize these things in you, and they draw me to your family. Your nephew,” he looked over to Guillaume who had begun to pet the ox. “Is gentle, kind, and bright. Your brother is strong and determined. All of your people who march with you have the promise of success, and I want to see you all succeed.” He squeezed Ernest’s wrist before letting go. “I am using my sway as a herald of the Dark Moon to lend credence to this journey’s peaceful intentions. I will march alongside your queen and her council, but know that at least one lord and her herald are on your side.”

He parted without another word, his eyes lingering over Ernest and his family. When the call went out, Guillaume gave the ox the command, and they began the march to the south.

\-----

The first part of the journey was the easiest for all of them. While they marched through the mountains on winding roads, it still didn’t register as real. How could it be real when the afternoon rains broke over the mountains and showered them as it always had? How could it be real when they walked by the great river of Berenike and let their beasts drink from it? Guillaume had sprung out of the cart at around noon to sprint to his favorite pool to find several other children already playing. He had learned how to swim in that water, and he knew that if he lingered real still, the minnows would nibble and tickle his toes. Bernard stayed with the beast and his brother while his son froliced among friends. 

They rested after five hours of marching on the recommendation of merchants and farmers. To over work their beasts was the same as slowly killing them. Rushing would only push them farther back. Concordia had not come to be known as a wise queen by ignoring the advice given to her, and so her people moved as fast as they could without hurting themselves in the process.

And at night, the restless undead held the wolves at bay with little more than chatter. 

Leopold was no where to be seen as the night drew over the land. Ernest sat with Maria and Bernard before a small campfire while Guillaume slept fitfully beside Elizavet. At night they polished their armor to keep back rust and give their hands something to worry over. “Four days and we’re almost out of the mountains,” Bernard said with a forced lilt to his voice. “I’ve been south before, but I’ve never seen the southern flatlands. Just Balder.” He paused his polishing. “I wonder what it’s like…”

“I’m stepping down from the council.” Maria’s abrupt words broke the carefully crafted calm. Both Ernest and Bernard looked up from their idle tasks to stare at her in disbelief. “The Queen has brought a Flame from Berenike in a stone basin, but it wasn’t one I recognized. Two towns had been completely claimed by the curse, and they collected the bones of their saints and the flames of their homes and placed them into one great stone basin. Our magnificent queen has done something I cannot understand-- she took the fires of our people. Our people’s bones burn in that pyre, and she took them from their home. Our home.” Her eyes were wild and tired, but she could not sleep. They could not sleep. No amount of laying down and wishing could let them dream. 

“Maria…” Ernest rested his hand on her knee. In all the history he had learned, no one had simply resigned from the council. When they grew tired and unable to advise, a potential successor would challenge them to a ritual duel. She would have to fight and lose to another knight to pass on her place, and she could only quit when she could no longer go on. “Think hard on this, Maria. If you leave the council, you will be harmed in the process in such a way that will make you a burden. If you remain on the council, all you need do is keep your silence.”

“Until what?” Bernard snapped. “Until she loses herself like our mothers?” He glared at his brother. “What do you think this curse does to us? We no longer sleep, we no longer eat-- do you not remember Nana’s last days? A week without food as she lost her memory? Until she could do nothing but totter about Mama? Would you have that happen to Maria on the council?” His hands shook as he stuffed his polishing rag back into his pack. His eyes met a startled Guillaume’s, and he realized then how truly terrible a fate he had predicted.

What Maria left unsaid rattled through her mind like the echoes of a tumbling stone in the depths of a cavern. Clattering painfully through her skull filling her with doubt and uncertainty. She could not stand by her queen like this, but to step down would be to make her a great burden. But she already was a burden. Maria polished the same piece of armor over and over throughout the night as she dwelled on her useless position. She had no wisdom to give the Queen and would only sow doubt among the ranks, and in the first four days of their journey, she already felt hopeless.

The rest of the night passed quietly until the grey of dawn broke over the mountain peaks. They would be near the mouth of the river soon, and then they would leave their homeland for the last time.

Ernest looked back over his shoulder to the mountains he loved for a view he’d never truly seen. There were three jagged peaks in the southern ridge, and sometimes if he squinted he thought they might look like a great sleeping dragon, but he had climbed those peaks and stood on the summit many times. There was no dragon, but in the misty morning with the fog rolling over from the western sea, it truly did look like such a beast rested there. 

They forded the river in the south just a day’s march from the ocean. Word spread throughout their ranks that further down and closer to the mouth of a wide farming community, and as such they likely had no genuine defenses that could rally against the Berenike knights. A few of the runners had met with the farm folk to better understand what lay beyond the piedmont, but the people of the delta didn’t travel much. They called their home the “five fingers of the maker’s hand,” and they rarely left that palm. 

As they did so, Ernest broke away from his group to watch for the Queen herself. He did not know if she would be on horseback or marching like the rest of them-- the only way they knew her in battle was by her sword and her miracles. When she drew blood, the lightning of the storm echoed through her blade and struck her enemies. When she commanded, golden light surrounded her and protected the knights with her. She was royal through skill, but outside of combat she was indistinguishable from any other knight.

And so Ernest looked for the transported flame and the Dark Moon’s blade. 

His breath escaped him as the royal procession appeared before him on the road. The queen led the force riding a horse in front of the two oxen that drew the flame bearing cart. The cart itself almost seemed to hover as if some magic had been cast upon it to prevent it from rocking and bumping over the pits in the road, and though Ernest could not see the basin that held the flame, he could see the brilliant bonfire reaching towards the heavens. Surely it had to be more than two towns that had supplied their holy fire, for he had never seen anything quite like it before. 

He stood there in awe watching the dancing flames in both horror and admiration. He was quite entranced when he felt a hand on his wrist and jumped out of his skin. “Ah! Fuck!” He whipped around, his hand free of the touch, to find the herald. “Flames damn it, Leopold. You have to stop touching me!” Ernest held his wrist protectively to his chest as the herald stepped back in shock. It didn’t matter that the man was clearly unaware of the gravity of his apparent crime, Ernest glared at him with a rage befitting a young child bitten by their sibling.

“I-- I’m sorry,” the man began with his hands raised. “I didn’t realize-- you were in the clouds, and I wanted to talk to you.”

“You don’t touch a man’s wrist like that!” Never really yelling, only ever talking _louder,_ Ernest did his best to sound mad. “I’m not your-- we’re not. I don’t _know_ you. What you’re-- that’s! That’s intimate! That’s soft-- we’re not. We’re not intimate _or_ soft! You don’t get to hold my hand.” Leopold looked wounded at first. He then cast his eyes down and away before trying to recover smoothly.

“Forgive me, ser. I did not realize such a touch held that connotation. My intention was not to violate but to merely borrow your attention.” Ernest wanted to be mad and to let it be known, but he felt like he was chewing out a puppy for just being a dog. His glare quickly shifted into a strange and angry pout. Then he huffed and relented.

“Just… don’t do it again. Don’t touch me again.”

“Of course.” Leopold looked at him with clear relief. Ernest wanted to say something else, like for the man not to look at him with his big old eyes and his soft expression, but he would get to that later. For now he had more interesting questions to ask, and in a way he was glad Leopold found him.

“Did you tell the clerics how to move the bonfires? Did you tell them to move the bonfires?” Ernest looked back to the flaming cart as his people marched on. He knew he should move with them and that the herald would likely need to march up front beside the queen, but he wanted to linger. He wanted to remain in Berenike’s lands just a little longer.

“I did.” Leopold’s words seemed cold. “I taught your clerics how to bind the flame with a coiled sword so that should it extinguish it could be rekindled. Both flames had been extinguished when the bones had been collected, and when all the spare flames were consolidated into one, Queen Concordia became their firekeeper.” They watched the procession approach a bend in the road. “She is bound to that flame, and should she perish that flame will die, but so long as she lives that flame will continue to burn. I do not pretend to understand the nature of the Firekeeper, but I do understand that your leader is an incredible woman.”

When the flames left their view, Leopold left Ernest to join the front ranks. Ernest couldn’t tell if his last lingering look was one of guilt or longing, but it put him ill at ease. 

As the days drew on, they grew closer to the edge of the kingdom. Well into their second week, they crested the peak of the last mountain and settled for the night. Elizavet lay comfortably by the campfire while Guillaume played with her hair, brushing it and braiding it. She felt almost like she was asleep when he did that, and she loved him for it. Randolf had parted to march with a civilian group and did not camp with them. Ernest and Bernard lay silently looking up at the stars through the trees, but Maria couldn’t stay still. She paced back and forth in her armor. She was a burden to the council, but to leave the council would make her a burden to her company. There was no way out of her predicament short of death, and she wasn’t sure she could even properly die. If she could, she didn’t want to die. She just… didn’t want to be a burden.

She looked to the children laying by the campfire and to the brothers looking at the stars. For a moment, she felt as though she did not recognize them, but she knew her homeland. The trees called to her, pulled on her soul as if refusing to let her go. To defect would be cowardly and it went against every fabric of her being. Her thoughts echoed like that clattering stone in the cavern, and she soon realized that she would not be herself for much longer. Before her thoughts could cloud again, she grabbed her sword and marched into the darkness embraced by the trees. 

Elizavet looked up when she heard her grandmother collect her gear. “Grandmother?” She sat up as Maria strode purposefully into the forest. “Grandmother?!” She rolled out of Guillaume’s lap and stumbled towards the edge of the camp, but Bernard was faster. He, unarmored, lept through the dark of the woods to give chase while Ernest clasped a hand on Elizavet’s shoulder. She struggled free of Ernest’s grasp and glared fearfully at him. “What’s going on? Why did she leave?” But Ernest could only look down at his feet.

“Granana.” Guillaume gathered himself and stood next to Elizavet. “They were talking about it. Maria is going the same way. Isn’t she, Uncle?” He waited, but still Ernest said nothing simply staring shamefully at the ground. “Why did--” Guillaume’s voice cracked. He wanted to blame his uncle for the curse, for Maria suddenly absconding, but he couldn’t find the words. It didn’t feel real. Perhaps she’d just gotten up to look at something, but a cloud of doubt hung over him.

They stood there in heavy silence as the campfire crackled and began to fail. Dawn saw Bernard’s return. He was alone and solemn and would not speak of Maria’s fate.

  
  



	6. Hollowed

Maria did not make it to the edge of Berenike. Her thoughts rattled through her leaving her in anguish. To abandon her people, her family, her granddaughter, her queen, her duty-- this was unforgivable. It didn’t matter what oaths she had sworn, she was not going to just leave them behind. But what her queen had done, what curse had befallen them all, what they  _ had to do  _ was so great a weight on her that she felt her body fail. She felt like a woman freed from the crushing weight of a boulder only to die from the poison of her wounded organs. Her duty was to her people, but she was trapped on the council without advice to give. To leave the council she would be maimed in a duel, and once maimed she could not fight. She would be a burden on those who carried her. She could not kill herself-- that would never be an option for her. But she could abscond. She could leave in the night and remain in the mountains. No longer did she need food or water. She was cursed with undeath, but even with her thoughts shattered she could still roam as a barrier for her homeland.

But in doing so she had given up, and the curse took hold of her crushing her thoughts and heart. She saw red hair in the moonlight and immediately lashed out. They would take her back-- they would  _ force her  _ to serve! No more. No more. No… 

Bernard did not speak of what happened in the woods. When the morning came and he stepped through the trees to their camp, no one asked. Elizavet let her tears fall as she struggled to put on her armor alone. Either her grandmother had defected and escaped, or Bernard had killed her, and she couldn’t bear to look at the man. She swatted away Guillaume’s hands as he tried to help her buckle her armor. The boy stood helplessly as she struggled and cried.

As Ernest tightened the belts on Bernard’s armor, he whispered to his brother. “You need to report this. You need to go in her stead today and inform the queen.” His hands shook as he jerked the leather strap upwards to tighten it as far as it would go. He put his body into it if only to get some sort of sound out of his silent brother, but Bernard didn’t so much as grunt. “Bernard!” Ernest grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. His fear and frustration were plain in his face as he glared up at his brother. “Whatever the hell happened out there, you need to report it. And go before--” He glanced at Elizavet. The girl met his eyes then bolted up the road. “Shit! Gods damn it, Bernard!” He pushed away and glared at his stone faced brother, but Bernard did not move any faster. He slowly placed his helmet on his head and strapped his gear to his back. His steps were languid and quiet as he left his family behind him and moved towards the Queen and her council. 

Ernest heard the loud footsteps behind him as he watched his brother go. He briefly registered his nephew shout something before Randolf collided with him and knocked him to the ground. The man had always been larger than him, and the weight of his armor pinned them both to the ground. Ernest had not yet dressed in his, and so Randolf had him at an immense disadvantage. It was all Ernest could really do to hold up his arms to protect his face and neck from Randolf’s punches. But after the first blow, the man stopped and began to pry at Ernest’s arms.

“What did you do to my mother!?” Randolf bellowed. Ernest locked his hands together to keep Randolf from breaking his arms apart. “Where is she?!” He straddled Ernest’s waist, and though Ernest could barely breathe he didn’t feel panic. He felt almost like he didn’t  _ need  _ to breathe. Another painful blow to his forearms. “Where is she?!” His voice began to break from rage into desperation. Guillaume stood back and watched in horror as the man whaled on his uncle, then he did the only thing he knew to do. He had always been told to never get in the middle of a dog fight but to break it up with boiling water. Well he didn’t have  _ boiling water _ , but he did have the oxen’s lukewarm water bucket. 

He grabbed it and chucked it at the two men-- it slipped from his hands when he meant to douse them, but it did what he wanted it to. Randolf reeled in surprise, his moment of shock leaving a gap for Ernest to flip him and scramble off. He bent ready to take another tackle, but before Randolf could get his thoughts together enough to charge the man, Elizavet jumped on him. It was an ineffective tackle, but it was what she intended. Her arms wrapped around her uncle, she tangled him and held him in place long enough for his head to clear. “It was Bernard,” she shouted. “Bernard went after her!”

“You can, you can uh.” Ernest stepped towards the cart where he could quickly reach for his sword. “He’s uh…” Randolf still looked like he might murder him, but Ernest felt for the man. “I’m sorry…” He ducked his head down. “I’m sorry, Randy. She went like my mothers… She didn’t defect.” A part of his own heart cracked as the realization truly settled. That the three women who had raised him had all gone in the same way. Randolf seemed to flag, his body slumping at Ernest’s words, and taking it as an end to the aggression, Elizavet loosened her hold and Ernest stepped towards him. “Randy, I…”

Randolf slammed his fist into Ernest’s jaw. He hit the ground spinning.

\-----

Bernard was in a daze as he approached the queen and her council. He recognized a few of the knights among her as local legends. There was the remaining knight of his province, Marine the Gloomladen who represented the wealthier side of the population. Marine was a man who excelled in rallying spirits and resources, but he had been a child plagued by sadness. Such was not the truth of his adulthood. There were the representatives from Ferre, the mining province. Their way was to place their honorific before their names and not after. Such was Red Dust Joule, the representative of the miners, and Black Iron Tarkus, the representative of the craftsmen. Ferre was a strange province. They did not wear the typical armor of their people but crafted their own to suit themselves. 

Eleven provinces called for twenty-two councilmen; Bernard’s home province of Kienden would be short one for the foreseeable future. Fifteen of those councilmen stood next to the queen as Bernard approached. He felt as though he had no place to deliver this news, yet he was the only one who could. A few turned their heads his way as he stepped through them to his queen-- there had been scant few times he’d ever seen her, and rather than command awe she simply seemed like his equal. She wasn’t. He knew she had skill and experience that far outweighed his own, but even with the flame behind her, she was only human. He needed that reassurance as he dropped to his knee before her.

“Speak, knight.” Her voice was clear and sharp. Perhaps even tired.

“I am Bernard the Adamant of Kienden, and I come with news of Maria the Restless’s absence.” He kept his head down not daring to look his queen in the eyes and did his best to ignore the hushed whispers of the councilmen gathered. “Maria has gone in the same way as my mothers. Like many of our people, my mothers suffered from a loss of self until there was no self left in the body. Maria left our camp last night, and I followed. When I caught her, there was no recognition in her eyes.” He bit his lip to stop his grinding jaw. “She did not die. She would not die. She is… Her remains are currently trapped. Pinned to a great tree by the river’s edge. Her body withstood incredible damage, but I was not sure if it could move without a head.”

Concordia was silent. She knew who Bernard was. She knew her councilmen well, and Maria was always one to chatter. First she looked to Marine to verify this man was who he said he was, and after a curt nod she made her decision. “Adamant, you are to speak with the herald and the clerics after you explain to  _ me  _ and my council just how your mothers died. Spare no detail. No matter your actions or perceived errors, you will only be rewarded for your information. Are we understood?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Then look me in the eye and tell me everything.”

Bernard stood with her blessing and started with his mothers. How some strange illness seemed to rot their minds until there was nothing left, how they had bruises over their hearts when they were left before their god, how Ernest had compared them to the first undead of their ranks. Then he spoke of Maria and everything he knew about her.

“The day we left, Maria was a wreck. This was true for many of us. It was her home, and she was abandoning family. She told those of us camped together how she wished to resign from your council as she could neither agree with your actions or give advice otherwise. She felt like a burden to the council, but her only way out was to become a burden to us all through the ritual duel. I would find it difficult to believe that her distress and indecision were not clear given her open nature, and I can only assume you were aware that something was not right.” He coughed feeling as though he spoke out of line. But he continued.

“Late into the evening, she had not removed her armor. She simply stared into the campfire well after we had all completed our maintenance, then without word or warning, she marched into the trees. I had seen both my mothers wander off as if they were lost, and I sought to guide her return, but when I caught up to her, she didn’t recognize me. Maria took my gesture as aggression, and lashed out. At first she spoke, asking me who I was and how dare I lay a hand on her. She accused me of trying to force her to abandon her duty guarding her home, but as we fought with words alone, she seemed to forget how to speak entirely. Nothing I said made it through to her, then her face shifted from lost to… hungry.”

“When she drew her sword and turned on me, I knew that the being before me was no longer Maria. It had all the skill of Maria, but it also had her eyes. Maria has never been good in the dark, and I had reason to believe she was losing her vision. This proved that. I did what I had to to put her down. I… disarmed her first then used her blade to behead her. Then I trapped her to the tree, impaled on her own sword, so that she could not…” His voice wavered. “I… The worst of it… I felt stronger… my head grew clearer with her death. I...”

“You claimed her soul.” The herald stood with his arms crossed. “Or her souls. It was an old practice the lords held when fighting the dragons. There is that which makes you  _ you,  _ and there is that which powers your being. Typically both are inaccessible except for those who have immense power, or great souls as the two concepts hold the same name, but it appears this curse is draining your reserves. Your bodies, soon everyone’s bodies, are desperate to reclaim what little they can from those slain. I can see no other explanation.”

“Herald,” Concordia spoke, seemingly unphased. She was a master of masking. “Take the Adamant with you to the clerics and explain this. Adamant, you will tell your tale again, and it will be properly recorded. Go.”

\-----

Ernest didn’t try to hold back Randolf as he chased his brother. He knew full well that if he tried anything near the Queen, he would be put to death or whatever the equivalent was now. But by the gods that bastard had landed a good blow on him-- his jaw ached, and his mouth filled with blood. A part of him was filled with rage-- how dare he lay a hand on him! A moment of fury passed through him with cruel thoughts of beating the man into the ground, but Ernest wouldn’t indulge such things for long. He liked to think that he was simply even tempered, but he knew that he wouldn’t actually be able to do the things his imagination wanted him to.

He poked a loose tooth with his tongue, both Elizavet and Guillaume watching him silently like vultures over a dying cow, but he had nothing to say. There was nothing to say. All he could really do was roll to his front and push off the ground. He felt the glass flask in his pocket and immediately froze before he crushed it. Having shards of glass stuck in him after all of this would have been a right kick in the shins, but to lose the holy liquid he’d been gifted on top of it all would have been a far more grave and deep insult. Gently he rolled to his front so as to not crush the bottle, then on a whim he uncorked it and sipped it. 

Perhaps it was frivolous of him to do so, but he felt like shit and that fire had made him feel alive again. He didn’t see how either child rolled their eyes, but the moment the liquid touched his lips, he felt fire roll through him. It was not the same fire that whiskey or booze induced in a body but a refreshing fire. It was more like chewing ginger. The pain disappeared where the fire ran, the blood in his mouth faded like smoke, and his jaw realigned. He felt strong again. And now much like his brother, he had something to report.

\-----

Randolf knelt before the queen, shaking. 

“I have listened to the account of the man who brought the news, and it is with great regret I inform you of the manner of your mother’s death.” She looked down at the man, and just like the one before him she saw someone who could have been her brother. “She will be honored as she should be. Maria the Restless is the first of our knights that the curse sought to claim, and I can only imagine that such ill luck befell us as she was one of our strongest.”

It wasn’t entirely the truth. The Queen thought highly of all of her council, but she had noticed Maria flagging. She did not yet know if there was any rhyme or reason for the curse to take who it did, but she could see no reason why she should have fallen first. “Her soul had been claimed with her body still living, and it was a man you know who brought her rest. Do not bear this man ill-will, and if you should then let it not affect your judgement. I will not tolerate infighting. Now go. Collect your family, and march with your heads held high. May the Storm be at your back.”

There was no arguing with the queen. There was no speaking out when surrounded by her council. There was nothing for Randolf to do but stand when commanded and walk lifelessly back to the camp. Elizavet would no longer be travelling with the family that had killed his mother. If his brothers had not already hounded Ernest, he would be the one to have to deliver the news. The gods were feeling particularly cruel. 

\-----

Leopold was no longer in his armor as he stood before the queen, her council, and the clerics. Bernard had given his account and left, as his input was no longer needed. With the flick of his head, Leopold tucked a thin lock of hair behind his ear and began. 

“What I am about to share with you is not knowledge I gained as a Blade of the Dark Moon but rather as a scholar of the Vinheim Dragon School. In a sense, I have served two lords, but I have only been devoted to the one. In Vinheim there is much study of the natural world, and one such phenomena is the soul. We all have souls, multiple souls. There is the intangible concept of a soul as our personhood. And there is the force that animates our life. When we die, both our soul and our souls (which can be quantified into units) disperse. When a person dies, for a brief moment their quantifiable souls can be collected by another vessel. In this case, we are the vessels.”

“This curse has poked a hole in all of our vessels, and a body without a soul is an empty shell. A hollow man. While typically death releases the souls, it appears that the reverse is not true. I don’t know what happens with the complete release of souls without the death of the vessel, and I will admit that I am curious to learn.” He rested his chin in his hand completely oblivious to the horrified looks of the knights surrounding him. “And it is that curiosity that leads me to be grateful to know we will not be passing near Vinheim. I have no doubt that the current scholarship would have no qualms with  _ experimenting. _ ”

When he began to wander off topic, Concordia snapped her fingers. “You call us vessels and say we are leaking. What is happening to the souls that we lose, and why could Bernard claim the remnant souls of Maria in undeath but not in life? We have all been in close proximity to death and the destruction of the body.”

He looked away from them as he thought. His eyes wandered to the flame behind the queen, and he considered what he could and could not tell her. “There are aspects to this curse that the Dark Sun has not shared with me,” he began. “I cannot pretend to understand her reasoning, but I believe she would not keep it obscured if such knowledge were important in breaking the curse.” He scanned the small crowd. “I have faith that my goddess will reveal all that we need if she has not done so already. She has never been one to toy with our lives.”

“Claiming the souls of the dying will allow the living to continue for longer?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it seems likely.” 

The queen stood, and though their heights were not so different, she seemed to tower over the man, her shadow reaching his feet. “We may yet be fortunate for your Vinheim background, Herald.” He canted his head in confusion. “Thank you for your insight. The rest of you!” She turned, fist raised. “We march at the hour!” 


	7. The River Border

The caravan did not stop as they stepped over the threshold from the foothills to the flatlands finally and truly leaving the mountains behind. There was no ceremony involved, but slowly those marching all came to realize that the mountains were well behind them. For the knights and the travelling merchants, it was not an unfamiliar event. Travel between lands and waging war on neighbors and the enemies of their neighbors often lead them far from home, but those who farmed or fished or otherwise took work bound to the homeland had never seen the mountains on the edge of the horizon. Blue with the fade of the sky. 

Ernest stopped suddenly on the side of the muddy road to pick up a rock. Bernard watched him bend down and brush the scum from it, but he didn’t understand what his brother was doing. He hadn’t seen him collecting rocks before, so he stared dumbly for a moment until Ernest lifted the rock to his mouth and -- “Ernest what the hell?” His brother paused with the stone raised to his lips. “Don’t put that in your mouth. What’s wrong with you?” Guillaume leaned around the cart to see from his perch behind the oxen. He hadn’t spoken to either man for several days, but his uncle eating something he shouldn’t was just enough to jar him out of his cold shoulder. 

“I’m not…” Ernest huffed and rubbed the rock on the exposed fabric beneath his tasset. “I’m not putting it in my mouth,  _ Bernard.  _ I’m. I’m just cleaning it… It’s dirty…”

“It’s a  _ rock,  _ Ernest. It’s made of dirt. No amount of rubbing it on your skirt or… breathing on it will make it any less dirt.” Ernest held the rock out as if considering Bernard’s judgement, but then he spat on it and rubbed it on the fabric with a bit more vigor. Bernard groaned and rolled his eyes before turning back to the march. Let him lick rocks. It didn’t matter anymore.

But Guillaume was still watching his uncle and knight as the man polished the rock with spit and wiped off the excess dirt. He didn’t understand why his uncle had decided to clean the rock-- the thought of putting something like that anywhere near his own face made his stomach cramp. How many people had stepped on that rock? How many oxen had stepped on it? Worst of all, when the rock was seemingly clean it really was just another grey-brown rock. There was absolutely nothing special about it. The boy turned away from his duty driving the oxen to watch Ernest trot up to the back of the cart, pop open the trunk with his grandmother’s armor in it and… drop the rock in the corner of it. Ernest raised a finger to his lips, a silent plea for quiet and secrecy as he caught Guillaume watching him in bemusement. 

It wasn’t the first rock Ernest had collected, and it wouldn’t be the last. The morning after Maria had walked into the woods, Ernest had gone to the river and pulled a stone from the water. The small cairn Maria’s son had stacked in her honor had inspired him, and when the time came, he would stack a small monument in honor of their journey.

\-----

Randolf had stewed for a week. He wanted to hate Bernard, to have someone to blame, but try as he might he couldn’t hold on to that anger. His relationship with Ernest had failed long ago, but he and his brother were still family. And gods, if he hadn’t been around, Bernard would have been Elizavet’s knight. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to hate him so badly that he’d lashed out at Ernest and refused to see either of them much less apologize. But try as he might, he couldn’t hold on to his anger.

He sat with his brothers who had already forgiven the other men. Hamlin, Elizavet’s father, was jotting something down in his journal. The man was a merchant, and recordkeeping had always helped to keep him calm. Randolf envied that about him. He didn’t have anything of his own that he could reliably turn to to keep his thoughts at bay. He closed his eyes, thoughts weighing heavily upon him, and came to a decision. Gods be damned for whatever forced Bernard’s hand-- he knew better than to think of the man as anything less than his brother, and Maria was a mother to them both. And… he’d hurt him. He’d punched Ernest when the man had tried to reach out to him.

Gods above, his mother would have been so deeply ashamed of him. Guilt ridden, Randolf left the camp to find the brothers.

He heard Elizavet’s laughter and Guillaume’s warm words before he saw them. His niece could always find it in her to smile, even in times like this. Not yet willing to confront his error, he stood at a nearby camp and simply listened. There was a man perhaps a few years younger than himself with clouded over eyes sitting by the fire where Randolf hesitated. He stared assuming the man was blind, as he couldn’t imagine being able to see when his pupils were blue and foggy, but the man turned his head, seemed to catch his gaze, and smiled.

“You like to listen to the children too?” Randolf’s eyes grew wide. “They remind me of the better things in this life. It’s easy to get caught up in it all, you know?” The man’s smile faded as Randolf continued to stare. His shoulders slumped. “You can stop looking at me like that. I can see you.”

“I-- I’m sorry. I just-- how?” Randolf’s face turned pink as he fumbled for words.

“A good question. My family makes a point to tell me how cloudy they are, but amid your and their confusion and fear, I think it’s just another aspect of this curse. Heh. I wonder if it’ll stop there, or if it’ll spread. Do you think my teeth will fall out?” He chuckled at Randolf’s look of horror. “If I’m undead, I might as well look the part. I’m Mitchel.” He stuck out his hand which was thankfully still healthy, but Randolf balked.

“I’m.” He looked the man up and down before glancing back at the children. “I’m late. Good meeting you, Mitchel, but I have to go.” He bolted, his dread in meeting with Ernest and Bernard overpowered by the oddness of the stranger. 

“Don’t forget to wash your hands!” Mitchel called after him cackling. Truth be told, he hated the way people stared at him, and he would gladly make them regret it through such mild means.

Randolf was hard to miss as he trotted towards the cart. Ernest stood by it largely oblivious as he let his clothes air out on top. He was effectively in his pajamas when he spotted Randolf, fully armored, briskly moving towards him.

“Oh crap. Oh no.” Ernest ducked behind the cart and pulled Bernard with him. Maybe, despite Elizavet and Guillaume talking loudly by the ox and petting it, they hadn’t been spotted. But Bernard didn’t share Ernest’s hesitation, and he struggled free of Ernest’s haphazard grip with ease. He planted his hand on Ernest’s face and pushed him away so he could continue his own laundry upright rather than hunched. When Bernard saw Randolf, he straightened his back and met his glare head on. Whatever the man planned on doing, he would face it.

Randolf stopped on the opposite side of the cart, pulled off his helmet, and hung his head. Any sign of aggression fled from him. “I’m sorry.” He looked up like a scorned dog. “Bernard, for doubting you and blaming you. Ernest, for laying a hand on you.” His shoulders sagged, and he felt as though he could fall apart into mud. “I should trust you, Bernie.” Hot tears gathered in his eyes as he tried to hold back his grief once more. “I know you wouldn’t-- I know you wouldn’t have hurt her…” His breath hitched, and he jerked his head to the side. Ernest lurched-- the man’s visible grief began to unravel Ernest’s own mental block.

Once Ernest started crying, neither man held back. The kids watched as their uncles stood awkwardly sobbed and as Bernard took Randolf into a hug. He held him, rocking from side to side for a moment before jerking his head for Ernest to join them. He pulled both men into his arms and squeezed them, and though his tears were not as vocal or visible, they were just as free flowing. 

“You know. You know what this means?” Ernest said into the hug. “I get to. I get to punch you back.”

“Mom would have demanded it…” Randolf smiled through his tears as Ernest gently tapped his shoulder. 

\-----

Alone in the light of the moon in a small clearing, Leopold knelt before a small makeshift altar. He stretched out a dark cloth and placed his sword and talisman upon it, then fell silent. His goddess rarely answered his prayers directly, but he had been chosen to guide this nation to her land. It was his responsibility to report to her and to seek guidance from her. He heard her creatures of early spring-- the crickets, the frogs, the braying foxes-- and he smiled. He had chosen somewhere beautiful to pray and meditate-- early spring brought delicate pale flowers in the small gap among the trees. They danced about him in the gentle breeze reflecting her light like little fey creatures.

“Goddess,” he whispered. “She who brings change and justice.” His hands rested on his knees. “I open my mind to you.” The silver circle of her miracles drew around him with her sigil, the blade and crescent, forming beneath him. He felt the pale ring on his finger hum with holy magic, and he let his thoughts flow forth knowing he would be heard. “There are those among these knights who show signs of undeath in their body but their minds remain clear. There are those who show no signs in their bodies, but their minds become addled and empty. Those who have seen them have taken to calling the mindless undead ‘hollow’. They are an empty body hollowed out and without humanity. I haven taken your advice and planted this term so as to unify all humanity should… should they fail.”

Leopold hung his head waiting for her answer and knowing he may receive none. She often worked through inspiration, and it was difficult to tell if an idea was his own or her influence, but that did not much matter as he could always reject a thought. What came to him next, however, he did not wish to reject. A moment of clarity and near excitement washed over him as he voiced his last request that evening. “Goddess, I ask of you to allow me to march with these knights, these people, every step of the way. I beseech you to allow me to journey through your land and carry out the tasks you give them. I ask that my duty as their shepherd end and that my duties as your Blade and as an undead begin with their arrival.” 

\-----

Several days passed as Randolf made peace with the brothers. He split spending his evenings between his own family, the brothers, and his duty. The trees began to thin-- the thick woods of the mountains falling behind them and opening into shorter and wider variations. Word travelled through the camp that they would have to forward another river, and that they had turned towards the west away from their destination to meet a shallow they could cross. 

The river itself was wide but not as fearsome as the Berenike river. It most assuredly deserved a mark on the map, but it did not seem so cruel that they need fear it. As Ernest and Bernard approached in the long line of carts, they saw with great relief that the bank to the river was a gentle grade lined with stones. The water did not reach the top of most of the wheels, and the oxen ahead of them seemed to have little issue. It was Guillaume who spotted the first Catarinan among the three of them. He hopped up on the cart to look before they crossed, and by the river was a man giving instruction to the people before they entered the water.

The first thing Guillaume noticed was the man’s dark hair-- it was a rich brown pulled into a loose ponytail behind him, and at first he was disappointed with how  _ normal  _ a man from the south looked. But then he saw how the hair had been coiled into individual locks, and the boy’s heart began to race. His first thought wasn’t of any oddness but the excitement of learning how to play with hair in a new way. The man’s darker skin, softer features, bright yellow clothes didn’t register at all to him while he was hooked on the hair. 

Without thinking, the boy hopped out of the cart and trotted over to the man to stare at him starstruck. He didn’t register his father calling him back. The man didn’t seem to notice him at first as he was preoccupied with helping people calm their oxen and prep to cross, but Guillaume waited eagerly. “Young man,” he turned to address the boy. His voice sounded like it came from within a great hollow bell. “You’ve been waiting patiently, I see. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Guillaume!” He blurted out before extending his hand. “I’ve never met-- I don’t know where we-- what you call your homeland but your hair is beautiful-- I mean-- will you teach me? I love hair-- I-- I mean-- I--” The man reached out and flicked at Guillaume’s short hair and smiled.

“I cannot teach you to do your own hair, nor can I teach you to do any hair. Nor,” his face fell in mild irritation, “are you the first to ask me about mine. What I can tell you is that yours is too short and how to cross the river. You are about to enter the sunlit lands of Catarina, young man. I assure you that there will be just as many people as curious about you as they are of them, and fewer of them will be as preoccupied as I am. Now run along there, lad. Let’s keep this daisy chain moving, shall we? Into the land of sunlight, with you!”

Guillaume’s face fell as the man gently chased him off, but when he passed with his uncles again, he was beaming. Neither Ernest nor Bernard seemed to think much about the man, simply thanking him and moving forward. Guillaume wasn’t worldly in the slightest, but that didn’t mean a man like their current guide was entirely foreign to his uncles. That and the two men had the sense not to stare at someone different from themselves. 

The water was muddy but not oppressively so. It didn’t coat their legs with dirt, but it was difficult for those walking to see the ground beneath them. Ernest took one step in the water, turned to Bernard, and said, “Hey you’re the tall one. You walk. I’m getting uh. Up.”

“What?” Bernard turned to him. “No you weigh a couple hundred pounds in that armor, and you’re going to make the ox drag you too? No. You walk with me.”

“Bernard, if I trip, I will drown.”

“No. If that was your fear, you wouldn’t have walked across the Berenike.” His brother squinted trying to figure out what was different. “And if you trip, I will just pick you up. What if I trip? Who would lift me up?”

Ernest let out a small whine, scrunched his face, and looked at the river and all the mud stirring in it. “Look, Bernie, it’s just that… The Berenike was  _ clean.  _ I could see my feet in it and…”

“Ha! Haha! No.” His squint turned into a glare. “You’re afraid of dirt after you tried to eat a rock?”

“No! I’m…” Ernest looked around nervously. “I’m afraid of… tripping and drowning…”

Bernard’s expression softened. He remembered a day when his brother returned soaked to the bone and afraid of the river and water. He’d thought Ernest had moved past it, but the fear of drowning in shallow water and armor was a real one. In murky water where he couldn’t see his feet, the people behind him wouldn’t see his struggle. The thought of it was enough to strike a small amount of fear in Bernard himself.

“Look, Ernie,” he placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Hold on to the cart. If you trip, you won’t fall. If you do manage to fall, Guillaume will call out, and I’ll lift you back up. Ok? That’s what brother’s do. Lift each other up out of shallow water.”

Ernest forced a smile as he followed his brother into the shallow river. He stepped carefully and slowly feeling for rocks before putting his weight down. They crossed the river to a road made by the passage of those ahead of them into the rolling hills of Catarina. 

\-----

A disease had begun to spread throughout Berenike. Knight-King Rendal heard word through his spies of an illness that took out the young. His heart broke for them-- no matter his ire towards the constant wars with his neighbors, no matter the tenuous peace they kept between the whims of their lord, he could not imagine the grief and horror of such a plague. Fearful of its spread, he closed the border. Those knights without children patrolled along the mountain’s edge to prevent passage into his kingdom. It mattered not if those fleeing were adults, his kingdom would not be compromised, and he would not let his nation’s children die. 

Two painful weeks passed, and he received no more reports of attempted escape into Balder. He sunk into his throne and held his head in his hands. “What is a man to do?” Anything to protect his people. “Delyth, did I do right? Or is the blood of those children on my hands?”

His closest adviser, a woman who loved him and who he loved in return, placed her hand on his shaking shoulder. “Only the gods can say, Rendal. But I stand by you, and I would have done the same.” The knight-king leaned into her touch wishing that all those years ago he had courted her instead of wasting his time on Concordia, but now she was too invaluable as his adviser for her to accept becoming the queen. Delyth had always put her level head over her heart, and he was both grateful and resentful for it. 

“Delyth…” He looked to her with tears in his eyes. “Would you stay with me tonight? I fear sleeping and the dreams that come with it. I do not wish to be alone.” His plea was an unusual one, but she would not deny him company. 

Delyth bent down to place a kiss upon his forehead and whispered, “Of course, my king and my friend. I will see you through to the dawn.”

\-----

_ Wash away. Wash it clean. _

_ Both the wound and the pain. _

_ Wash away. Wash it clean.  _

_ In the storm. In the rain. _

_ \----- _


	8. The Rolling Hills of Catarina

In all of her years, Concordia had never expected to be welcome in another kingdom much less celebrated. She tried to keep her face expression stiff and unreadable as they marched through the first of many towns, but the warm welcome of the Catarinan people quickly broke her exterior and brought a small smile to her face. Leopold walked in full gear among her entourage-- his brass armor sticking out plainly from her grey knights, but the people of Catarina seemed to recognize him for what he was. They did not stop in that first town as the people tossed flower petals about them and ruined their roads with their excessive numbers.

The first evening, they made camp along the road to the capitol. Farmers invited them to stop and rest along their pastures as surely their god, the lord of sunlight himself, would praise their willingness to help those in need. And if he didn’t, well. It was simply the Catarina way to show hospitality wherever they might. For the first time the five thousand who marched were plain for all to see. There were few trees blocking the view of the families and their carts, and the grasses upon the hills spanned like an ocean caught in time. When the wind blew, the grass shimmered like water, but the pastures had long since been flattened or eaten down. Guillaume climbed his cart and stared agape at the sheer number of people around him. Most people only brought themselves and the clothes on their backs, but they completely covered the wide pasture. He could see the smokes of distant fires in further pastures and the great pillar of flame that marked their queen. All around him were people he had never met. 

Even now he felt as though his world had been condensed. Elizavet’s family was huddled with his around a small campfire, though as they had left Berenike lands their queen had ordered them all to be more sparing with their fires and careful with their wood. It would not do to destroy their welcome by cutting down the nations’ forests for a little light as they passed through. The people of Catarina had quickly offered a solution.

Manure.

Bernard had kept a straight face as the lively Catarinan man showed him how to mix the ox’s manure with grass and twigs before setting it in a small campfire. It didn’t burn as brightly, but it was hot and lasted. Whatever smell it gave off was no more terrible than the manure already, and strangely he couldn’t pick up on it. He still did not look forward to collecting manure from their ox as they progressed, but if that was how they were to fuel their fires, then so be it. 

The dawn came sooner as the season drew longer and the pilgrims moved further south, but even with the extended daylight they could only march for five hours of the day. Despite the Catarinan’s hospitality, the people of Berenike kept to themselves and made sure to avoid the towns and as many people as possible. Concordia feared being seen as invaders or diseased, and passing swiftly through without imposing was the best way she knew how to ensure they were seen as pilgrims with true and peaceful intentions. As it was, only Concordia, the Dark Moon’s Blade, and a few clerics were allowed to pay respects at the town’s individual temples. Each morning a family or travelling group offered up a gift, and she would place that item on the sunlit altars of whatever town they paused in. 

The roads became better maintained and fully paved as the Berenike people approached the populated heart of Catarina. Small altars depicting travelling gods dotted the roads, and following apparent Catarinan tradition, the knights left small offerings to bless their travels. By the end of the seventh day of travel, Guillaume was frustrated and pouting. He saw a land now that he was entirely unfamiliar with. He saw traces of a culture he couldn’t possibly know with gods and traditions he wanted to know but was denied. For the first time in his life, he’d seen people who looked different from him. People who were dark and sunblessed-- more sunblessed than anyone from Berenike. The first man’s hair was braided or bound in a way he didn’t understand, and he wanted to understand. He wanted to see this land for its golden rolling hills and sparse trees. He wanted to see this land for its people. 

He came up with a plan. 

“Elizavet,” he elbowed her gently while their fathers and uncles sat and chatted in the hot afternoon sun.

“Hmm?” The sensation of heat had been dampened by the curse, but her armor was made for cooler weather. She was feeling it.

“I heard talk that there is a city not too far from here. Maybe a couple hours walk…” She popped an eye open. “If you left your armor behind--”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well I think we could still break away, get to the city, and then catch up or the day after.” He grinned at her, his bright brown eyes gleaming in the sunlight. 

“What about the Queen’s order?” She leaned back to let air flow through her armor. “The whole ‘don’t bother the locals’ thing?”

“We’ll just have to…” He looked at the other men. “Make sure not to bother anyone.” Elizavet watched him nervously survey the rest of the people they travelled with, and she knew he already planned on sneaking out. It wasn’t a matter of if or how anymore. Once Guillaume set his mind to something, it would happen. It just so happened that most of the things he was determined to do were frivolous or mischievous. But she also knew it was probably a terrible plan and that she would need to fix it.

“Hey fairy boy,” she reached back to flick at his chin. “Let’s walk around. I might be hot, but I won’t be idle.” He beamed at her indirect yes, and the two wandered off into the crowd.

From all the people Guillaume had seen, he’d thought it would have been impossible to navigate their way to the edge of the crowd. They should have been turned around and lost sight of their way to the main road, but somehow they stayed true, and somehow they didn’t actually have to push through the gathered people. He couldn’t see the edge of the crowd (in part because he wasn’t taller than average), but they must have been more dispersed than he thought. Elizavet had taken his hand, and the two walked swiftly through. It was only when the road was in sight did someone try to stop them.

“Hey!” A woman called out as they passed her. “Where are you two going?” Guillaume smiled awkwardly and suspiciously as he tried to fumble for a lie that would let them pass. Before he could say anything damning, Elizavet spoke for him.

“We’re gonna look for a log to kick over and search for bugs.”

The woman snorted and waved a hand at them. “Hadn’t heard it called  _ that  _ before, but you get out of here.” Her meaning went over their heads, but they were glad for her indiscretion and immediately ran along. Once on the stone road, Guillaume burst into laughter and began to spin with his arms stretched out.

“Lizzy!” He beamed at her. “Lizzy we’re in another kingdom!” His clothes were dirty from travel, and Elizavet had no doubt that they both stank, but there was nothing really they could do about it. She could only laugh.

The walls of a city soon came into view as the two meandered down the road with the wind gusting about them. The farmlands grew more condensed the closer they came to the city, and with the closer homes came more and more Catarinan people out and about walking the road and going through their daily lives. Guillaume was unarmed as he darted about Elizavet smiling and waving. Many of the people smiled back at the boy, but most of them didn’t know what to make of the pair. As they were, Elizavet was a heavily armored knight and a rather imposing figure in her steel armor with a great sword as big as she was and a shield to match. She was still a child, but it was hard to see unless she spoke. Guillaume was a pale boy (compared to them) with his odd blond hair that moved like wheat in the fields. 

A man spotted them from his home along the road and stuck his broom out his window to briefly stop them. “Hey!” He called while sticking his head out to address them better. “Are you two on business?” The two fumbled for an answer fearing they’d been caught and would be sent back ashamed of themselves, but the man merely grinned and stepped out (broom still in hand) to meet them. “I am Franz!” He puffed out his wide chest and grinned. His smile seemed all the more brilliant for his darker skin. “And I could not help but notice all the strange looks you two were getting. Why, I don’t think I have ever seen anyone like you before. Oh no.” He placed his knuckles on his chin and pretended to ponder the youths before him. “You don’t look like delta folk… They don’t have knights! Good and gentle farmers. Too peaceful for that sort of thing.”

Elizavet shuffled awkwardly in her armor as the man made a production out of guessing their homeland and intentions. “Oh what is that nation to the east again? Mirror? Something like that. I’ve seen distant clerics from the Mirror with hair like yours young man, but their knights are not so imposing. But you come from the north, so that means…” He let his words linger in a way that made it clear he already knew, and Guillaume began to squirm. “Why that can only mean you’re our guests from that quaint little kingdom of Berenike.” Before his words could be perceived as sinister, he threw up his arms and shouted. “Long may the sun shine! Oh ho ho! Truly marvelous timing, I must say.” He slapped a hand on each of their shoulders and began to push the two of them further along the road. “For you see, it is our first harvest and our celebration devoted to the daughter Gwynevere this evening.” He chuckled sweeping the two along with him. “In order to participate, you must help set up! And I’m sure our cleric will find something for you.”

\-----

“Where are the kids?” Hamlin scanned around for his daughter and her friend. They’d been quiet, but he’d assumed Guillaume was playing with her hair or something.

Bernard looked around before shrugging. “You couldn’t expect them to stay with us all day, could you? Guillaume probably started something like a braid chain. Or maybe they’re looking for the softest ox to pet. Maybe they’re playing.”

Hamlin pursed his lips before shrugging. Elizavet wasn’t the sort to get herself in needless trouble, and if they did wander off, there were several thousand of their people for the two of them to find and regroup with. 

\-----

Guillaume was in love. It was not with a person but with a wealth of knowledge he had no idea even existed. He watched as one woman pulled perfect tiny curls out of a man’s fluffy hair and as yet another person made the most intricate braids he’d ever seen. He stepped into the circle, dipped in a quick bow, and floundered out a “will you teach me?”

A woman who was undoing the braids of a man’s hair smiled and waved him over. “I don’t think there’s time enough tonight, dear boy, but I can let you watch. Do you mind, Herbert?” The man shrugged without a real answer before dozing off under the woman’s hands. Guillaume was entranced with the swift movements of her hands-- in his small town, very few people spend time on working with hair and many people had told him to go into rope work rather than knighthood, but he didn’t have a passion for ropes or thread. He had a passion for  _ people.  _

“What’s that?” He pointed to a pale green salve the woman dipped the tips of her fingers in. 

“Hmm? Oh, greenblossom. It’s a weedy little flower that helps promote growth and health. When you rub it on your skin, it helps your skin. Stinks a little though.” She held out her hand for him, and when he sniffed her fingers his face scrunched. It wasn’t a potent smell, but it reminded him of the bitter vegetables his dad used to try and get him to eat. “And this,” she flicked her hand before rubbing another salve onto her fingers, “is to help keep the hair itself healthy. It smells much better, and if you use it when you bathe your hair will be beautiful.” Guillaume leaned over to sniff the salve, and true to her word it smelled like something between nuts and apples. The lady chuckled at the wide look of wonder on his face and began to explain what she was going to do with the man’s hair.

Before the festival started proper, someone volunteered their home for both Elizavet and Guillaume to bathe in. Guillaume washed Elizavet’s hair with the salve the homeowner had, and it shined like bronze in the evening dusk. His was similarly brilliant, and he wondered how he’d gone his entire life without it. Their host had provided them with clothing that Guillaume gladly took, but Elizavet retained her armor with replacement underclothes for the occasion. Their own clothing drying from a wash, Guillaume donned the pale yellow shirt and canvas pants and tied a blue sash about his waist. 

Franz waved them down as they stepped into the street. The man had dressed himself in yellow belts and sashes over a relatively white tunic, and it soon came apparent that such blues and yellows were the colors of the holiday. “You wear our clothing well, young sir!” He plopped a hand on Guillaume’s shoulder before looking Elizavet over. “And you, fair lady! Are you prepared to participate in the sparring? I’m sure the knights would be pleased to have a foreign challenger this warm evening!”

“Oh! I um--” She looked to Guillaume uncertain if she should accept, and her friend nodded. “Yes.” She held her head high. “Though… I can’t say I know what I’m getting myself into…” Elizavet dipped her head coyly. She didn’t want to get anyone’s expectations too high.

“Ah! Well today is Veres Nacht, the night we celebrate the Sunlight Princess Lady Gwynevere, so we pray for a hearty harvest and healthy children. And knights will take whatever chance they can for a good old fashioned spar,” he waggled his eyebrows. “So I can take the two of you by the ring beforehand, and the knights can go over the rules if you want. But there is no pressure.” He raised a hand as he spoke. “This is a night of fun and celebration! Those knights will have enough fun without you, and you two can gather around the fires for your health and good fortune!”

Realization dawned on Guillaume, and his mouth hung open. He’d seen a few idols of the sun princess (some with more ridiculous proportions than others as idols tended to exaggerate), but he was beginning to understand why everyone wore such bright colors.

Franz led them through the crowd in the street between two homes and into a far larger gathering among the wide fields. Guillaume squeezed Elizavet’s hand as at first he thought there were as many people celebrating as had marched from Berenike, and in the darkness it was hard to tell. The shock quickly wore off as he saw three massive bonfires that burned as brilliantly as the holy one they carried from the mountains, but these gave off a dark smoke that separated them from the bonfires of the temples and clergy. These were burning wood and a  _ lot  _ of it. Scattered about were smaller bonfires that looked more like proper bonfires and not  _ burning buildings,  _ and around those people danced and jumped.

A long line of people formed just before two of the massive bonfires. As Elizavet and Guillaume approached, they saw couples grab hands and dart between them. One couple passed through the space only to fall to the grass and grasp at each other, but they were quickly chased off by a group of children tossing some sort of over ripe fruit at them. Between the two fires it was as bright as day, and in the night it was hard to look in their direction, but the largest bonfire gave off such great heat it was hard to even face it. 

The two wandered in a tireless daze through the massive crowd sharing stories they wouldn’t remember with people whose faces they couldn’t properly see. Someone pushed a cup into Guillaume’s hand, and when he tasted it bubbles popped in his nose and sprinkled his face with warm wine. They giggled and wandered connected at the hip until they found themselves following the sound of a man loudly calling out. Guillaume’s heart pounded as he saw a man in armor standing by a dirt ring. It was odd armor. The helmet and the body of it were rounded like heads of garlic, but that same man held a sword that almost rivaled Elizavet’s. 

“Oh!” The man jumped when he saw Guillaume appear beside him with his heavily armored Elizavet. “Oh!” He cried again in recognition. “You are the two foreigners! Well, two of the many, are you not? Have you decided to join us?” He looked exclusively at Elizavet who fumbled her words but nodded fiercely. “Good. Good! I am Conrad! A knight of this realm. The others will be gathering soon. Now sir knight, as this is as much a test of skill as it is a drunken celebration, I must implore you to not actually wound anyone. There are those on standby who can aid in an emergency, but please do us all a favor.” She couldn’t see it, but he was looking over the massive handle of her blade that appeared over her shoulder. “Ah, you there lad. Are you her squire?”

Elizavet flushed a deep pink while some horrible ringing sound echoed through Guillaume’s ears. The man quickly saw his error and raised his hand. “Forgive me! I simply would have assumed-- never mind that. Are you both participating, or just the lady? As you are unarmored, you could join in the hand to hand or the blunted duels.”

“Both.” Guillaume’s voice was strained as he glared at the man. “I would like to participate in both.”

“Ah but--”

“It would be a learning experience I cannot turn down, and my knight would be disappointed in me for doing so.”

“As you wish, lad. That makes eight and seven then.” The knight turned away from the two and rang a loud bell that seemed to summon several other similar knights like children to dinner. 

\-----

The first knight Elizavet dueled did not stand a chance. She pulled her sword from her back and gave Guillaume the scabbard. It was a massive blade that seemed to have been shorn from stone but was very much steel through and through. The knight balked as it seemed too great a weight for someone to wield so deftly with a single arm, but their hesitation cost them the match. Elizavet swung and slapped the side of their helmet with the broad side of her sword, and they were counted out. 

The second knight was smarter and caught her blade with his shield. The buckler had a spike on it meant for catching and redirecting blades, and he quickly spun Elizavet’s sword away. But she moved too quickly for someone so heavily laden in armor and blocked his blow with her towering shield. Guillaume cheered for her as she swung for the knight’s sword, collided with it, slid her blade down and tapped the man’s shoulder. 

In between bouts, they studied the Catarinan knights. How they parried, how they waited to strike, how they switched between holding their shield and holding their sword. For everything they learned, the knights around them learned just as much in return. Guillaume was too quick and a bit clumsy with the blunted blade they lent him, but he was swift on his feet and careful to avoid blows. Most of the people he fought were swordsmen but not knights, so they too were accustomed to dodging and striking.

By the end of it, the two of them found new comrades to share guidance with. When Elizavet had finally been knocked out, the woman who had landed the blow pulled off her helmet excited to have a girl close in her age share her art. She’d whispered her name like a scandal into Elizavet’s ear. Valentina. Val. The two then practiced the same move that had cost Elizavet the minor tournament until she could land a blow on that garlic shaped armor. Guillaume couldn’t help but feel a little left out despite those who surrounded him until Elizavet took his hands and pulled him away.

“Let’s walk between the bonfires!” She beamed like his own personal sun. “Val says that couples walk through in hopes of healthy children, but once they’re done, everyone else walks through as a prayer for health and fortune!” He smiled at his friend but saw Val looking bashfully away, and he came to understand why Val had brought it up in the first place. Well. There was always a solution.

“I’d like that,” he said though he knew the other knight would be disappointed. He had a plan though, and as much as he loved Elizavet, he knew this wouldn’t hurt him.

“Hey uh,” Val rubbed the back of her neck. “Why don’t you two go. I have to… take care of… Something.”

“No you don’t!” Elizavet would not have it, and she grabbed the girl’s hand. Guillaume remained by her side, but it was Val’s hand she was holding. The woman blushed as Guillaume winked at her, and when they darted through the bonfires Guillaume lagged behind just enough.

  
  



	9. Gentle Rains

Ernest held out his hand with his palm upward. There was a briskness to the air that belied rain and a breeze through the grass that sounded like pattering droplets, but he had yet to feel any. The kids had been off for a few days, but it didn’t strike him as worrisome. No one would dare try to harm one of their knights, and Guillaume had such a friendly way about him that he doubted anyone would even consider aggression with them. The only actual issue at the moment was that no one in their traveling party knew the ox as well as his squire, and a storm was blowing up on the horizon. Gods forbid the beast spook in the storm and none of them be able to calm it.

It was strange to be able to see the clouds build while standing on a mere hill. He’d barely had to climb to get where he was, and he could see the wide-open sky even at the dips in the earth. As Ernest contemplated the wind, the sky, and the approaching storm, Hamlin and Randolf struggled to cover the cart. 

Realizing that they ought to travel as one group instead of two, Maria’s family had brought their larger cart so that they could consolidate their travelling equipment. Hamlin had worked with the oxen and teamed them together successfully for the past few days before they sold off Bernard’s much smaller cart. The cart they had now had four wheels instead of two and room enough for both oxen to pull it along. 

The third of Maria’s sons had become a merchant like his brother. Much like Hamlin, Lyle had forgone the art of war in favor of the art of commerce. He was a gangly fellow who had left his daughter and partners behind in Berenike. His little Eirlys. Would she know who he was when he returned? He struggled to stretch the wax canvas over the cart in the wind, his mind ever on his little girl, when he dropped the rope and cursed. Bernard appeared as the man crumpled to the ground in tears. He said nothing as he took over the work of strapping down the canvas, and when it was secure he placed a hand on Lyle’s back.

Lyle reminded Bernard of all he could have lost and left behind. He would have rathered that Guillaume had been free from the curse, but he was glad to have his son there with him. He had no romantic partners, and all that he loved marched forward beside him. His brother. His son. His friends. These people were his family, and he hadn’t needed to leave any of them behind. But Lyle was a father just as he was, and the man had left his young daughter without the certainty that he would return. She would grow up without him if she grew up at all. Bernard could not imagine the pain.

When the rain did hit, it poured. It wasn’t like the spring rains of Berenike. It wasn’t sharp in its coldness or preceded with an oppressive drizzle. It hit, soaked the world about them, and passed within the hour. There was no lightning in the clouds, and though they were wet and miserable, they marched on.

\-----

Guillaume yawned as he woke. He startled, unsure of where he was as initially he didn’t recognize the plastered walls of the home he rested in, but as sleep faded, the night before began to return to him. He’d taken part in some festival and had the time of his life. He’d wrestled with other people until he’d been knocked down into the mud-- he’d watched as Elizavet held her own against knights she didn’t know and as she was finally bested by a girl who’s heart she’d stolen. They’d dashed between fires, and even though they weren’t hungry they had eaten and drunk alongside the living, and at some point the fog of alcohol waved through his mind and… he woke up on the floor of someone’s home.

Elizavet sprawled on a cushioned bench in her armor with her arm dangling over the edge and her helmet on the ground. She snored loudly before turning over and hitting the wall, but even that did not wake her. As Guillaume blinked the sleep from his eyes, he heard footsteps from the hallway. A girl stepped in with her dark cloud-like hair pulled back in a bun. It took him a moment to recognize her without her armor, but once he did he gave her a tired lopsided grin.

“Hey Val,” he said before stifling a yawn. “I haven’t slept in weeks. And Elizavet,” he turned back to his friend. “You must have really worked her through the wringer.”

“Oh?” She dropped next to Guillaume and sat on the floor. “I don’t think that dancing is going to be much more difficult than marching cross country. As for the noise…” She raised an eyebrow at a particularly loud snore. “I think she might have overindulged. She seemed to like the bubble wine.”

“So did I!” He grabbed her hands and beamed. “How did you do that! How do you all do that? Our wine is made of fruits, but we never have that much of it, and it never bubbled.” Val pulled her hands away and giggled. The knights were so terribly country, but even Guillaume was endearing. Even if he was a boy. 

“On the night of Gwynevere’s feast, we take little pearls and drop them in the bottom of the casks. Lady Gwynevere likes pearls, you see, so she blesses the wine to bubble like little kisses.” Her eyes wandered over to Elizavet who continued to snore. “It’s like Lady Gwynevere is giving you kisses herself, so the wine is much stronger and flows more freely. Little kids only get a sip.”

The two chatted the morning through, talking about their gods and customs. The Storm wasn’t a known god in Catarina, but neither were the three Catarinan goddesses of sorrow, sin, and favor known in Berenike. They found common ground in that their knights were rather exclusive and that traditionally knighthood belonged only to certain families. A squire was introduced to a knight they knew to study and learn. Guillaume had his uncle, and Val had her step-mother. When the reason for their march came up, he tugged down his shirt to show her his brand, and he recoiled at her look of horror. But when she asked him if it hurt and he said no, her fear relaxed. 

When Elizavet finally woke, she groggily rolled off of the bench onto the floor. She yawned, stretched, and sat up only to startle when she saw Val watching her with a grin. “Oh uh! H-hi, Val! What uh… What brings you here?” She ran her hand through her hair only for the gauntlet to catch and tug on some of her messy braids.

“I live here.” She giggled as Elizavet struggled to free her hand of her hair before reaching over to help. Elizavet held stock still as the other girl tugged on her locks until her hand was untangled. “How long do you two want to stay? You’re welcome here for as long as you like, and I sure would appreciate a sparring partner like you, Elizavet.”

Elizavet’s eyes widened with hope and excitement, but before she could speak Guillaume cut her off. “We’re marching to the land of the lords with our families and our nation. We have to catch up with them today before they get too far off.” Immediately Elizavet’s shoulders fell. Her excitement destroyed, and her dejection plain on her face, Guillaume felt as though he had broken her heart. Val seemed similarly disappointed, but it didn’t stop her.

“You worship Lord Gwyn at least? I think we can manage.” She stood up and darted off to the other side of the room before rummaging through a shelf filled with boards and scrolls. “Here!” She plucked a small scroll from it all and handed it to Elizavet. “It’s a prayer. Learn it. It’s the story where the miracles for message and guidance come from, and with enough faith in the gods and with their favor, you can send a message to someone on the other side of the land. I think. I don’t see why you couldn’t. Just…” She placed her hand over Elizavet’s. “Keep Lady Gwynevere in mind when you petition the Lords. I think she’d understand best.”

\-----

They were too clean. Bernard squinted as Guillaume effectively hid behind the two oxen. Both he and Elizavet had been in remarkably high spirits, and though Elizavet could lie through her teeth, Guillaume would crumble under his own weight and spew whatever it was he had done regardless of consequence. His boy was honest to a fault, and he was proud of him for it, but it was only a matter of time until he admitted he’d run off to see a little more of Catarina than the Queen had permitted.

“It’s fortunate that the Queen did not give a direct order to remain in the camp,” Bernard said to a disinterested Ernest. His brother shrugged as the intention flew past him. Still, he did not speak for Ernest’s benefit. Guillaume had a tendency to eavesdrop whether he wanted to or not, and his father would use that to his advantage. “Defying the Queen’s orders would be treason, and I don’t think any of us here wish to die for wanderlust.” Ernest was a little slow on the uptake this time, so he simply grunted completely unaware of what Bernard was doing. “I wonder what Catarina is like, and it’s a shame we couldn’t visit the city, but we’ll be passing through a town where we can trade out oxen and barter for supplies.”

“Yeah,” Ernest began. His tone was a little louder and more obvious. If it wasn’t clear to Guillaume before, Ernest’s complete inability to act would have given them away. “You know Elizavet wasn’t around when Lyle and her father met with that uh. Travelling merchant. I thought for sure Guillaume would have wanted to be there to help train the oxen. I can’t believe that boy would sneak off to wash his clothes without you, Bernie. But uh, if I were a kid. If I had a pretty friend my age in a land I’d never seen before, well. A queen’s suggestion wouldn’t hold much weight.”

Guillaume wasn’t sure if he should be relaxed that his father and his uncle already saw through him or terrified for it. Neither man seemed particularly perturbed, but he couldn’t tell if that was just an act or not.

“So, um,” he said as he slipped out from his hiding place. “If someone did leave the march, what would happen if they were found out..?” Small beads of sweat began to form on his forehead.

“I don’t know.” Bernard looked at him with a placid expression. “But you didn’t bother anyone, did you? Even with Elizavet fully armored, you two aren’t too imposing. I suspect she’s getting a similar lecture, but it was your idea, wasn’t it son? Better to beg for forgiveness than be denied permission?” Guillaume winced under his father’s sudden glare. “Guillaume, you were lucky. This land seems peaceful and eager to welcome all into its borders, but this is not like any land we’ve ever known. In all my travels, nations have been nothing but hostile-- and with good reason. Even with a supposed herald of one of the lords, we are marching with the numbers suited for an invasion. The Queen has been very careful to give the appearance of our harmlessness and to foster our peaceful intentions. She does this to prevent needless war.”

“But--” Guillaume caught himself before he finished parsing the thought into words. The Berenike knights were a kingdom that survived purely on war. It was the pillar of their religion. On the surface it didn’t make sense for their monarch to so desperately attempt to avoid war, but they weren’t doing this for their god. They sought another lord’s guidance and patronage, and she had to take precedence. He hung his head determined not to be so lax in his interpretations of the Queen’s words.

Elizavet, for her part, had already gone through the lectures from her father, her uncle, and her knight. They talked at her about the consequences of her actions, the potential future consequences of her actions, the likelihood that she would be publicly executed and deemed a traitor if she were discovered until her mind formed a wall and no words could pass through. When they were finally done, she pulled out the scroll Val had given her and began to memorize the prayer.

It was a long thing, longer than any she’d had to memorize before, and it was a bit dull. It was a tale of how the Sun had needed to contact his loyal knights as they fought the dragons. It wasn’t a poem like she was used to, and she wondered if she had to get the long flowery descriptions perfect or if she could improvise a little. The tale continued with the Lion Knight receiving the message, the Wolf Knight inscribing the response, the Lord’s Blade preparing the response, and the Hawk launching it back to their Lord. Her face scrunched up as she tried to figure out how their names were pronounced. “CIARAN” could have been said any number of ways. See-ar-en? KI-ar-an? She wouldn’t have thought “keer-an.” Except for Guillaume’s weird name, vowels typically had their own syllable in Berenike. 

She had even more trouble with “Gough,” though neither Ornstein nor Artorias seemed to be that strange or foreign. Or maybe, she realized with sudden horror, she was saying those wrong too and would never know it. Elizavet cradled her head in her hands as she thought about how those names might be said, and for a moment she wanted to curse the lords for having such odd names, but she was no heretic, and to even think such a thing was inviting evil. 

Her father watched her with growing concern. Elizavet wasn’t the type to internalize a lecture to the point of agony, yet there she was holding her head in her hands. Hamlin placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lizzy?” He waited for her to look up at him. “It’s OK, Lizzy. You have a loop hole this time, and we’ll keep it quiet. What’s bothering you?”

She frowned, thinking for a moment, before holding out the scroll. “A girl.” Hamlin’s brows furrowed as he tried to understand what a girl had to do with the odd miracle she gave him, but he came up with nothing. 

“Elizavet, I need you to elaborate…”

“There’s a girl back at that city. A pretty girl that I sparred with, and I want to keep in touch-- she wants to keep in touch. She gave me this miracle to learn so we could but…”

Hamlin waited for her to explain what was so hard about the miracle. She had to learn prayers just as long before, and surely if she wanted to, she’d have this down in a heart beat. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“Huh?”

“Well, if she’s a pretty girl, you want to impress her. Are you nervous you won’t impress her--”

“Dad!” She nearly tripped. “No! I’m not afraid of that-- I mean. It won’t matter unless-- no! Ugh! Dad.” Elizavet pulled down on the sides of her helmet. “I don’t know the names…”

“You just said her name was Val.”

“I know her name!” She didn’t understand how it was so hard to talk to him about this, but the more she tried the harder she struggled and the less he understood. “You’re so dense! I can’t say the names in the prayer!” She wanted to stomp off and gripe, but now that she’d finally said it, maybe he would understand. Maybe he would know the names even.

“Oh well let me read. I’m an old man, Lizavet, and I can’t read and walk at the same time.”

They stood there for what felt like ages as Hamlin read the prayer. Elizavet tried to look knightly next to her civilian father, but as more families passed them with curious glances, she felt her facade fading. Then he finally spoke.

“We should ask Bernard.” Elizavet’s jaw fell open as she all but glared at her father. “There are as many vowels as there are consonants in this name, and I’ve never seen any names like these before except for your little friend. And Guillaume has the strangest name I have ever seen. Even that foreigner herald has a name that makes sense.”

\-----

Leopold didn’t have many people asking for him. They either asked for the council, the clergy, or “the herald” but never for him by name. Even when he was without his armor, he still stood out so much so that few bothered to learn his name after their inquiries. He was happy to serve the Dark Moon in this manner, of course. Tending to her flock was a part of his calling, and if that flock came and went like fish in a stream, well so be it. But he was all the more excited when he’d been requested as “Leopold” instead. 

He hopped out of the chair he’d taken for the evening eager to see who was asking for him. Who saw him as a person with a name rather than a herald for a distant god? He introduced himself with his name and title together, so it could have been anyone. He all but darted past the rest of the clergy and the council in his casual wear to meet this person only to find a young knight and an older man he’d never met. He had a good eye for faces and a good head for names, so he was certain that he had no idea who these people were. The knight, a girl, stuck out her hand for him to shake. 

“I am Elizavet the Joyous,” she said with a smile on her face and a death grip on his hand. “This is my father, Hamlin. Ernest the Devoted directed us to you.”

Learning the name of the mystery person brought a smile of his own to his face. Leopold was careful not to cradle his hand after the girl’s over enthusiastic greeting, but the pain was secondary. “I am familiar with Ernest. I suppose I should say we are acquainted rather than familiar. How can I help you, Elizavet?”

“I want to learn miracles.” She straightened her shoulders. “I have a scroll, a gift from a friend, but I can’t say the prayer without learning the names. I can read just fine, but names are different. And… Ernest thought you might be able to help since you’re a herald of the Dark Moon herself and from a different part of the world in general…”

There was a slight irrational twinge of disappointment upon learning that he was only being called as the herald despite being called by his name, but he could deal with that later. “I have no doubt that I can aid you in this. Do you have the names?”

Hamlin pulled out the scroll and handed it over. The herald’s eyes sparkled as he read over it. “Your friend must have great faith both in the gods and in you to trust this miracle will function as you desire. This is a tricky one. In fact, I would like to make a copy of it to share.” He turned to Elizavet with a world of possibility running through his mind. “Would you mind?”

“Only,” Hamlin stepped in with a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “If you teach her yourself how to cast it properly.”

“Dad, I can learn my--”

“It would be my honor.” Leopold handed the scroll back to Hamlin. “Your father is a wise man, Elizavet, and this is a tale I’ve not yet had the pleasure to cast. I look forward to helping you stay connected with your friend, just as I look forward to having you as a student.”

Though Hamlin did not say it, he did not trust the herald to give back the scroll after teaching her the names. He’d known enough sleazy people to suspect everyone to misuse their power if they weren’t reminded that the leash pulled both ways, and though the herald didn’t have to honor it at all… This would give Elizavet a better chance than none. 

But when he watched as she stumbled over the strange names with the foreign man, he felt both that his concern was unnecessary and that having Leopold teach her himself was the best choice he could have made. 


	10. Under the Moon's Light

Leopold stood in his knightly regalia in the shadow of the new moon-- the light of the dark moon. A small handful of knights had joined him on one of his goddess’s holy days, and most of them wished to join her ranks. Their nameless god had favored them in life, but he seemed powerless in undeath. A god who could not protect his followers was not a worthy god, and while no knight would dare speak ill of the Storm, it was the Dark Moon who guided them now. They would learn how to revere her. 

The first thing they needed to learn was not a prayer or a miracle but about who the goddess was. The majority of them already understood a small part of her power, but there was so much more to her than changing one’s body. The goddess was retribution, atonement, change-- none of these people could become her blade without understanding her or, more importantly, without her permission. There was one knight Leopold had been hoping to see at the small gathering, but try as he might, he couldn’t make a man appear out of will alone. 

No one could see his frown as he realized Ernest wasn’t there. He had hoped, but he hadn’t expected. 

Leopold had grown quite fond of his time tutoring Elizavet, and he hoped she would continue to come to him when she had committed the miracle to heart. The girl didn’t have the sense to really fear him or treat him as a herald of the gods, and he welcomed the normalcy she brought, but she was still a girl. He wanted a  _ peer,  _ and for reasons he couldn’t quite place he felt Ernest was his best bet. He was probably very wrong and had only had a few very limited interactions with the man, but Ernest had treated him like a person. Not a title. So had the girl, but she could not be his peer. 

He didn’t have time to dwell on disappointment as those gathered were waiting for him. They stood in a circle in the field with a pale orb shining just above them. There were miracles he could have cast, but it was far easier to maintain a luminous sorcery while he introduced those gathered to the concepts of Gwyndolin, and he knew his lady would not mind. She was the most practical of the gods. 

“The moon,” he began in a soft voice to better draw their silence and attention. “Is a symbol of change. Many of us have such a blessing, but the goddess embodies so much more than that. She is retribution, she is loyalty, she is her own self no matter the expectations put upon her. She is choice…”

\-----

“Gowff. G-ow-ff.” Elizavet stared dumbly at Leopold as he read the names to her. “And this one is ‘Keer-en.’” She heard the sounds he was making, and she saw his mouth moving, but when she looked at the names he pointed to… she couldn’t force the connection. 

“Goff?”

“Gough. G-ow-ff. In the back of your throat. Ciaran is towards the front. These two are the most confusing written down-- I’m actually quite impressed your friend spelled them properly.” Leopold bobbed his head in approval while Elizavet cradled hers. Artorias and Ornstein hadn’t been terribly hard to learn, but she struggled with Gough and Ciaran. They went against everything she’d been taught. Gough should sound like  _ gouge,  _ and Ciaran should sound like… not that. They hadn’t even gotten to the weird flowery language the story was written in.

“Ser Leopold..?”

“Hmm?”

“Does the faith of the caster really matter, or is it just a test of who’s willing to memorize the weird old language and hard names? Because I feel like all the faith in the world doesn’t matter if I can’t say these names right.”

She watched as he bit back a laugh. “Of course faith matters here. If you don’t believe in the gods, why should they believe in you?” He looked so genuine, almost innocent in his proclamation, but she was making a joke. “Learning to say the names and learning the prayer word for word are acts of devotion. There is strength in the words themselves, yes, but what happens when you cast a miracle is you simply explain to the listening lords what you wish to happen, show your devotion by learning their tales, and put your trust in them.”

He watched her with the fondness typical of a mentor as she continued to say the names and recite the prayer. She was getting it, slowly, though her mind seemed to fill in words that weren’t there and change the structure of sentences at random. “Ser Elizavet,” he stopped her. “Try covering up the words until you reach them. Read with your finger.”

“My finger? Like a child?”

“You are reading too quickly. I suspect you could read silently if you wished as well.” She stared at him as though the answer was obvious. “Forgive me for appearing to patronize you, but I have traveled to many nations larger than your own with greater wealth where fewer people could read or write. Of those that could, fewer could read without speaking. It is a skill I did not expect to find outside of royalty in a kingdom such as Berenike.”

Her mouth hung open as she tried to imagine a kingdom where people couldn’t read. Parchment and paper were expensive and tedious to create, but there were miracles that made the process easier and faster. Even without paper, surely books and scrolls were imported. Berenike did not boast any large libraries, but it was required of all knights to be able to read and cast miracles, and as a result much of the population was literate. But her astonishment was broken by a familiar voice and a warm embrace.

“Hey Elizavet!” Guillaume wrapped around her and looked over her shoulder at the miracle. “Can you cast it yet?”

Leopold watched as the girl shrank down in admitting defeat before snapping up and proudly trying to say the names. Perhaps his calling was as an instructor since the pride he felt watching her warmed him to his core, but he’d soon be flushed with a different heat akin to whiskey. His heart stuttered as he looked past his student and her friend to the knight who had accompanied them. Ernest, the beauti-- the Devoted. The man stood with the afternoon sun casting a shadow across his face and catching his beard like tongues of flame. He stood at ease with his weight on one leg and his sword and shield strapped to his back. Leopold floundered and quickly tried to think of a way to greet him.

“Hello, Devoted.”  _ Damnit.  _ Why did he shift to formalities? He felt himself stiffen in regret.

“Oh. Hi Leopold. Er. Herald?” Ernest appeared stern in his confusion. “How’s Elizavet doing? She’s not bothering you too much, is she?”

“Oh, on the contrary!” Leopold stood to meet Ernest eye to eye. “Please, call me Leopold. I appreciate your candor. Very few speak so casually with me as you and Elizavet do. And…” He trailed off looking into Ernest’s eyes. He’d seen heterochromia many times in his life, and as far as heterochromatic eyes went, Ernest’s were fairly typical, but he felt as though he’d never seen any as lovely as his. Soft brown ringed in a pale green were common, but Ernest’s eyes stood out among the rest. 

“And?” Ernest’s head bobbed subtly as he raised his eyebrows. They too were red like his beard, and Leopold wanted to brush the man’s cheeks and hold his jaw while he admired him. To cup his face in his hands and--

“Oh! I would appreciate seeing more of you. I would seek you out, but I do not wish to intrude. I would like you to know that you will never be intruding if you come to me.”

Ernest stared at the man. He was looking back at him in some form of adoration, but Ernest wasn’t sure what was going on. “Uh… yeah… maybe.”

_ Maybe.  _ That was as close to a no as a man could get without admitting it. Leopold wanted to be hopeful. He wanted some sort of affirmation. He wanted to know that when the sunlight caught Ernest’s regal profile he would see him again. There were many men who looked as though they were carved from marble in Vinheim. There were many beautiful people in Anor Londo, but Ernest looked as though he had been hewn from the mountain itself. His heavy brow, his arcing nose, his sharp cheeks all seemed like facets of the land with his beard reminiscent of the mist at the base of a waterfall. 

“So uh…” Ernest looked around for clues. Was there something he was missing? Was Leopold that desperate for friends? Guillaume was beaming at him-- were the two of them in on something? “Yeah.” Ernest nodded as if that meant anything. “I guess I could drop by…” He saw Leopold’s face light up-- he was quite handsome. His grey eyes looked like moons. The man’s face was flushed, and Ernest’s heart went out to him. It must be hard for a fellow so used to the night to march under the warm sunlight. He felt Guillaume nudge him, and being a little more welcoming wouldn’t hurt… “And it’s not a uh. It’s no problem if you come visit. It’s not an intrusion. We’ll tell you if it is.”

Leopold felt dizzy. He’d been holding his breath while Ernest spoke, but all he could do now was smile. He stiffened his back and his manner, and finally let go of his breath. “I would like that. Very much.” Afraid of being too eager, he reined himself in and let Elizavet and Guillaume dominate the rest of the conversation. Soon he would have to devise a way to visit Ernest without standing out too much. He did not want to cause distress among the people nor did he want to be singled out. But… he still wanted to look good. As the three knights left, he watched on longingly. 

\-----

“Ok, Guillaume.” Ernest shot a glare at his nephew. “What’s going on? What do you have planned?”

“What? Me?” They were well out of earshot of the herald when Ernest turned on Guillaume. The boy looked around innocently feigning confusion. “What do you mean planned?”

“Don’t make me spell it out. You  _ and that man  _ were in on something.” Ernest glanced at Elizavet. “I don’t do secrets. You know better than to uh. To try and rope me in. You’re going to have to go back and explain to him I’m not in.”

Guillaume stopped walking and stared at his uncle in wonder. Even Elizavet was looking at him in amazement and disbelief. “Uh, Ernest?” She punched at the man’s arm before beginning to laugh. “Ser Devoted?”

“Uncle Ernie?” Guillaume sang. “That man has a bigger crush on you than Val does on Lizzy.”

“Hey!” Elizavet piped in with mock offense. “But it’s true.” 

“He what-- oh. Oh my gods…” Ernest’s words did not come with the expected bashfulness of a man informed of a romantic lead but rather with the drooling horror of a man dreading something torturous. While he processed what his nephew had claimed, Elizavet tucked the boy into a head lock and began to rub his hair with her knuckles. 

Ernest was silent for the rest of the walk back to their camp. He didn’t look forward to the attention that came with romantic affection-- well typically he relished it, but now he was surrounded by extended family, and all he could think of was the teasing he’d gone through as a kid. How many romances of his had ended because he couldn’t handle the ribbing? Most of them. And this one had to be a joke at his expense. He couldn’t imagine it any other way.

He remained quiet and thoughtful (though mostly apprehensive) after they’d returned and Guillaume and Elizavet took it upon themselves to announce that  _ the herald  _ would probably just wander up some day to chat. Unaware of the looks he was getting, Ernest stood up and loudly announced, “No.”

“No what, Ernest?” Bernard asked without looking up. The man had sought to sate his boredom by pulling apart a stalk of wheat.

“No.” He glared at Randolf and his brothers. “I’m not doing this. I’m not going to be the butt of your joke. Even when I had partners that made sense, you people were merciless. Randy, you were particularly cruel when we split. I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know why you think it’s funny, but I do know that that Vinheim pretty boy has no reason to even know my name, much less actually  _ want  _ to know it. So one of you--” his glare filled with vitriol as he turned on Guillaume, “needs to tell Leopold to cut it out, or I will. I won’t be nice about it. Anyone who-- who agrees to something like this--” His hands began to shake as he tried to force out his last thought, but the connection between mind and mouth seemed to cut out. He chomped on his tongue, but it didn’t help.

It was only when Bernard stood and placed a hand on his wrist did Ernest begin to calm down. “Walk with me, Ernie…” He pulled on his brother’s hand before tugging him away from the camp. They strode away among distant campfires, faint moonlight, and deep grass. Bernard waited until they were well out of earshot and eyesight before breaking the silence. “It’s getting warmer. Another day or so before we reach Thorolund.”

Ernest only grunted.

“We’ll start heading west…” He looked at his brother who was a mere silhouette in the darkness. “As per the herald’s guidance…” A grumble. “Ernie, look.” Bernard pulled him to a stop. “This isn’t something I understand, this isn’t my game, I don’t have a frog in any race. But this herald fellow, Leopold, is right next to  _ the Queen.  _ I was surprised he agreed to help Elizavet, but everyone likes to be praised. And having people come to you for help is a kind of praise, so it made sense, but Ernie-- look at me.”

“It’s dark, Bernard. I  _ can’t see _ you.” Bernard cuffed Ernest’s shoulder. 

“Smart ass. What I want to say and what I want you to hear is that the herald doesn’t have time to pull your leg. A man like that doesn’t have time to tease you--”

“Then why is he doing it?” Ernest’s voice grew louder. “What do you expect me to think, Bernard? You’ve never had to deal with the  _ hounding.  _ The supposedly gentle ribbing from our mothers, from Maria, from  _ her entire family.  _ The only time I had any peace with any partners were when  _ no one knew  _ or with Randolf because he could stand up against it. Why would I believe that someone as important or as busy as Leopold would have any genuine interest in me? I am a—. I’m a painfully average man. Can you imagine what Maria would say?”

“Ernest, I have never been able to understand situations like this. All I can tell is that there’s no logical reason for Leopold to seek you out and that teasing a man he doesn’t know goes so strongly against any reason that it’s not even on the table. I have seen people do ridiculous things over infatuation, and I have watched infatuation strike like a snake in the grass. Maybe you said the right thing, maybe you were there at the right time, maybe you are actually quite handsome and far above average. Or maybe it’s not infatuation and Leopold is just  _ lonely.  _ Do you not remember Maria once complaining about how intensely formal the council and the clergy are?”

“... He touched my wrist the second time we met. Tried to get my attention. I snapped at him...”

“See? He  _ is  _ lonely. Poor lad. And you?” Bernard lightly punched Ernest’s shoulder. “You are the most affable human being I have ever known. You radiate it.” The tension in the air seemed to wash away with Bernard’s good humor. He heard Ernest sigh before letting out a breath of his own.

“But…” Ernest nervously started. “What if he  _ does  _ actually find me attractive? What if this isn’t a ruse?”

“Ha!” The laugh put Ernest on edge. “Ernie, if he is genuinely interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with you, then you have got the gods-damned herald of the  _ Dark Moon herself  _ as your partner. No one in our camp would  _ dare  _ taunt you. I sat in on one of his lectures about what a Blade actually does. That man has more blood on his hands than you or I do.”

\-----

They would soon cross into the land of Thorolund. Queen Concordia had found the people of Catarina to be to be strangely warm and welcoming, but she was grateful for it. Hospitality before heartbreak was easier to accept than after. She had attempted to keep her people distanced to maintain their welcome, but she was not so foolish as to think some of their number would not sneak away to sate their curiosity. She could only pray that they would not abandon their duty. 

Her own duty never seemed to end. Her duty as a queen was to protect and guide her people, and that now meant leading them across the land to the city of the gods. Her duty as a human being was to protect the rest of the living from those of her ranks as the Storm had grown eerily silent since the Struck Tree burned. But she had a new duty, one that was not for any person or people but to the flame itself. She often found herself looking back at the bonfire they carried with them wondering if she would burn in it as her predecessors had before her.

_ “There are different ways to become a firekeeper,” Leopold said while taking a coiled iron rod from a velvet lined case. “This is a sword, though in name only. It pins the souls of the dead in place and feeds them to the First Flame. So long as souls are offered to it, it shall continue to burn as a weak echo of the Flame itself. We often use such bonfires to monitor the health of the First Flame--” _

_ “Is it weakening?” _

_ “I… Well. I cannot say. If it is, I have not been informed. Only those who tend the Flame understand the nuance behind it and can deduce any information from it.” _

She now tended to that flame. She felt it pulling on her chest when she parted from it as if she were bound to it in body and spirit. Too far and she grew weak, but she had chosen this for an untended flame could not be moved, and her people needed the flame to stave off the curse.

_ She knelt before the flame in its great stone braiser. Her clergy watched as the Blade stood behind her with the coiled sword in hand. He was saying a prayer, calling out to the clergy and waiting for them to call back, and as he did so a golden light surrounded the base of the weak fire. The remains of three town flames burned, but they were weak and sputtering. Together they invoked the lords, Gwyn himself, Nito, Izalith, all while knowing it would only be the Sun and his family who would answer, for the Flame was his domain. _

_ The circle enveloped the dying bonfire and the people surrounding it, and as the prayer grew to a fever pitch the room went silent. There was no time for Concordia to register the blade at her back. Leopold was swift and careful, and as it corkscrewed through her chest, all she could think was how powerful a miracle and how strong an arm Leopold must have to puncture her armor and skewer her through. Her blood ran down the twisted blade into the ashes before her, and it lit like oil. The fire snapped upwards following her dripping blood and surging around her. She felt the blade move as the man behind her jumped back. _

_ It burned within her, through her, and left her to ash. She stood, a woman burning, leaving the sword plunged into the fire as her body seemed to phase through it. She reached for the wound and felt her blood, but as the flames lapped at her body, the damage was mended. The clergy gathered murmured in awe as their queen burned unharmed, and from her had sprung a bonfire stronger than any in their kingdom. _

She supposed she was already burning. Her vessel, her body, still had the leak Leopold had suggested before, but now it was directly connected to the Flame, and it would never fully empty as floated upon an ocean of souls. She may drown, but she would never go hollow.


	11. Post

“Thus it was that the Lord of Sunlight was a far ways from his faithful knights. In his great power, he carved a message upon the sky, but it was only his lion, Ornstein, who could see the great rays above him. With their wings, the massive dragons covered the sky, and three knights remained beyond reach.”

Elizavet held her talisman before her as she knelt on the ground and recited the tale. Leopold waited for the result several yards away with both pride and trepidation. 

“Ornstein in his great speed and borrowed sunlight ran for Artorias the Wolf, and he threw his shield in the air to split the wings above them. Sif, the grey wolf and his loyal companion, sought out Ciaran. The Lord’s Blade listened to the wolf before seeking the Giant.”

The golden circle appeared around her, but Leopold could not yet relax. Elizavet had come this far before only to stumble over Gough’s name or falter in her faith. He wanted to see her succeed, and once she had come close, he had lent her a small token to help focus her faith.

“Gough, the Hawkeye--” Leopold nearly cheered when she said his name properly. “Pulled back the string of his mighty bow, the message of the knights’ return etched upon the dragonslaying arrow, and let loose the magnificent bolt to pierce the sky and render useless the dragons’ flight.”

The magic circle was fully actuated, and without missing a beat, Elizavet placed a small note in front of her. It burned, seeming to disappear, before falling out of the air in front of Leopold.

_ Hello Leopold. Val told me to think of Lady Gwynevere when I pray for this miracle because my motivation is love. If you have this, that means it works, and I owe both you and the Sunlight Princess. You should come to dinner, except we don’t eat. So you should come sit with us while we pretend to eat. Ernest will be there. _

He looked up from the paper to see Elizavet obnoxiously winking at him. It went beyond the obvious half blink into a full body twist where her mouth hung open, her head bobbed, shoulder bent all in his direction. He rolled his eyes with a smile of his own.

“I suppose it is only proper that I accompany you home so that I may inform your family how absolutely proud of you they should be. But,” he canted his head with a smirk. “Before they make you perform in front of them, don’t you think you ought to send Valentina her message?”

She stuck her tongue out at him before turning back to recite the prayer and pass her written letter back to Val. When he thought her attention was fully occupied, he immediately began to preen. He pulled his hair free of its tie and ran his fingers through it trying to smooth it and make it seem nice without really being able to see what he was doing. He licked his wrist and sniffed it to check his breath, and when he didn’t like what he found, he scrubbed his tongue on his teeth and rinsed his mouth with water. 

Elizavet had not actually started her incantation, and she had to bite her tongue to stop her laughter. The man was so nervously readying himself to meet  _ Ernest.  _ Guillaume’s uncle. A man who was notorious for wearing his clothes backwards and not caring. From the way Guillaume and Randolf spoke of him, she was amazed he put his boots on right in the morning. But she’d let Leopold find that out on his own. For now there was a girl waiting for her to write. 

\-----

Elizavet sat proudly with her hands folded on her lap as her family by blood and choice shared stories of the home they had left and the travels they shared. But she wasn’t sharing. She knew that at some point a letter would appear before her, and she could scuttle off to read it before any of them had a chance to question her. She also knew that at any moment Leopold might arrive to swoop Ernest off his feet, and in a way, she would be their match maker. She couldn’t actually remember a time where either Ernest or her uncle had a partner, and it struck her that she might be  _ meddling  _ rather than  _ helping.  _ But before she could begin to dwell on her actions, a folded letter sealed with red wax fell to her lap.

She darted away with the letter in hand as if she had been bitten, and though her haste turned several heads, no one bothered to follow. Guillaume remained behind sitting on a blanket with a knowing grin upon his face.

**_Elizavet_ **

The address was written in flowing script akin to calligraphy. Her heart pounded as she slipped her finger beneath the seal and popped the paper free.

_ My dearest Elizavet, _

_ I often think of that night where we first met blade to blade. I had seen you take down the knight I studied under with incredible ease. How you lifted your sword as though it was a tenth its weight, and how your eyes shined in the firelight. Our helmets keep us anonymous, but I am grateful that your face was bare. I was first drawn in by your skill, your art, but when I saw you, I knew I didn’t stand a chance. Of course, I had been studying you as an opponent, and when we did cross blades I was the one to knock you out, but while I won the match, you won my heart.  _

_ It was only for a night we were able to speak, to connect, to be together, but promise me, Elizavet, that when you return from your god given duty you will come to Catarina. I would never demand that you stay, but I wish to see you again. Your silky hair, your soft eyes, your warm smile. I wish to kiss you again.  _

_ Oh please write to me again. I don’t think I can bear not knowing how you fare. Our neighbors to the south are cold and ill mannered, though they think we are too boisterous and equally ill mannered. When the rolling hills become rocky forests, you will know you have left the warmth of Catarina.  _

_ Tell me of the mundane as much as you tell me of the extraordinary. Tell me of the oxen nipping your family, of the pretty stones you see, the leaves, the trees, the birds! Describe it for me so that it might feel as though we are there together. As I sit now with your letter beside me, I am filled with joy that we can write to one another. Lady Gwynevere has blessed us in this. I am not to waste paper, and yet I find myself wanting so much more that I scribble in the margins going back up the side and take care, Elizavet. _

_ Yours most truly, _

_ Valentina Amelia Lovelace _

She swung about, spinning with the letter in her hands entirely unaware of the minor tragedy that was happening in the camp behind her.

Guillaume watched as his father held a mirror to trim his beard only for the man to stop, furrow his brows, and come to the conclusion it didn’t need work. He ran his hands over his beard before looking to his brother. Historically, he had to remind Ernest to trim his beard or even brush it, but it hadn’t seemed to have grown in the past week.

The boy reached for his own face to tug on the few hairs that had sprouted along his upper lip and the one wild hair that had appeared below his ear along his jaw. His breathing grew heavier, panicked, as he frantically felt for new growth. He hadn’t paid it any mind when his face had stopped itching and his acne cleared up.

Hearing his boy, Bernard turned and knelt by him, putting a hand on his shoulder and studying his face. Guillaume’s eyes shined with tears before he ducked his head into his father’s chest. Bernard wrapped his arms around him and began to rock him side to side. Guillaume began to sob, hiccups breaking his moans and sniffles. When he loosened his grip, Bernard leaned back to look him in the eyes and began to ask, “Guillaume, what’s--”

“I won’t grow a beard!” The boy wailed before stuffing his face back into his father’s shoulder. He continued his muffled lamentations while holding onto his father like a lifeline. “Your beard isn’t growing! Mine! Mine won’t ever grow! Cause we’re  _ dead!  _ We’re dead, and I’ll never get a beard like yours, and I’ll never get to-- to--” A hiccup broke his cries. “I’ll never get to curl my moustache!”

Bernard’s world came to a stop. He had been grateful that his son survived and that they would travel together, but he had not considered that his boy would never grow into an adult no matter how long he lived. That thirty years in the future when Bernard himself should be old and his body failing, his son would still look like a fifteen-year-old squire. Or perhaps they would fall apart, wounded and rotting without the ability to grow and heal on their own. Horrifying visions of his family gangrenous and shambling without minds of their own danced through his mind, and his grip around his son grew firmer.

“We don’t know if that’s true,” he said finally. He looked over his son’s shoulder to his brother who stood watching them wanting to help but unsure how. “And Ernest will let you curl his moustache until you have your own.”

\-----

Ernest was a diligent uncle and a kind knight. He also could not stand to see his nephew so intensely distraught. He was leaning back with his eyes closed as Guillaume brushed and braided his hair. The boy had already waxed his mustache into a magnificent curl and put soft braids in his beard to hold whatever flowers or flower-like leaves he could find in it. While he didn’t like his nephew’s hands around his  _ face,  _ he did find himself enjoying having his hair played with. 

“Oh!” Guillaume jumped up and dropped a half done braid. Roused from his stupor, Ernest turned to his nephew.

“Guillaume, what’s the--” His words caught in his throat. The boy was smiling stupidly as a very well-groomed Leopold approached them. Though Ernest wouldn’t notice the details, Leopold’s hair had been slicked back with a shine, his cotton shirt had been washed until it was white, and his dark blue sash had been pressed until it was free of wrinkles. Bernard silently approved. 

“Hello, Ernest.” Leopold’s voice was soft and nervous. He canted his head forward as if he wanted to nod but stopped himself. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. You look quite handsome.”

Very few people saw Ernest with his hair down-- keeping it bundled was one of his security blankets, and he fumbled between tying it back up and leaving it down for Guillaume. Leopold watched him, drawing his lip between his teeth before letting out a subtle breath.

“I came to check on Elizavet’s progress, but I see she isn’t here.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of the knight. Ernest looked caught off guard and defensive, but the flowers and leaves so lovingly braided in his hair and beard told a story of softness. Leopold didn’t realize the tenseness in the man’s eyes was from fear of judgement and mockery.

But something changed, and Ernest’s expression shifted. A thoughtful smirk drew across his lips, and his eyes seemed to darken as he looked at Leopold’s clean face. “Actually, I think you uh. Have pretty decent timing. Hey Leopold, can uh. Can you grow a beard? Any facial hair?”

The people gathered turned to the herald as he opened his mouth as if to speak then stopped. Was this some sort of judgement? Was his worth dependent on  _ that?  _ He cleared his throat and held his head high. If that was something to be valued on, then he would answer truly, and perhaps his opinion of Ernest had been wrong.

“No.” His voice was sharp. His lips pursed. “I have never been able to grow facial hair. Even with her blessing.” He felt cold humiliation run down his gullet as if he’d swallowed icy sea water, but then Ernest, seemingly oblivious, slapped his nephew on the shoulder with a wide smile. The boy bounced forward with the blow but seemed unhurt.

“There you go, Guillaume!” Both the herald and the boy stared at Ernest in confusion. “He uh. He can’t grow a beard either. So… so uh…” Ernest became aware of Leopold’s cold look and guarded demeanor, and he began to falter. “So uh… you’re in good… company… Shit.”

A beat passed while Ernest became aware of his insult under Leopold’s steely gaze only to be broken by another welcome.

“Harold!” A wiry man pulled a trunk from the back of the cart and pushed it into the circle of gathered people. “Come sit with us!” He sat down and slapped the spot next to him. “I’m Lyle. I can’t believe your name is ‘Harold’. That’s a bit on the nose for a herald. Harold the herald. No judgement from me though.”

For a moment, Leopold was shocked out of the slight and tried to process what the new man said. He’d never expected anyone to assume his  _ name  _ was ‘herald,’ but the man seemed so sure of himself. 

“You misheard. My name is Leopold.” He turned from Ernest and took a spot next to an anxiously smiling Lyle. The man looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in days, and while Leopold knew it would have been much longer than that, the strain of the journey was far more apparent upon Lyle’s face than the others’. 

“Oh. Oh. __ I see. I’ll pretend not to be disappointed. That was a joke. I’m not disappointed. But it would have been funny-- not that anyone’s name is funny.” Lyle began to shake his leg. “I left most of my family back in Berenike, and I cannot keep my mind off of them, but it helps to talk, you know? You got family? I left my partners and daughter back in the mountains. Lizzy’s little sister is staying with them. Always called my lady-partner ‘Miss Marigold’ on account of she doesn’t like being called ‘aunt’. Says she doesn’t like sounding like a bug and all that…”

Leopold first got comfortable on the trunk to half listen to Lyle’s rapid fire ramblings, then stayed to listen to the various stories and gossip the families shared. About children and loved ones, old haunts and forests, the dead and the living. He remained comfortably seated beside Lyle while Ernest squatted far off with his elbows on his knees staring intently into the grass. The knight was consumed by his error. 

As the sun began to set, their visitor glanced towards Ernest. He had thought to give him time, but it seemed both his presence and his silence had only allowed the man to fester. He looked angry with his thick brows gathered together and his beard and (currently ridiculous but also very dashing) mustache covered his lips, but Leopold knew that look. He’d worn it before. 

It was the appearance of self loathing and great guilt. It was the expression of someone who reminded another of the pain of their life before Gwyndolin. He had unintentionally called into question the masculinity of a man following the Dark Moon.

But it was an innocent question asked only because he was so certain of Leopold’s masculinity and his contentment with his body. He understood the context now. Of Guillaume’s plight. There was no reason for Ernest to dwell and suffer for so long, so when the conversation lulled, Leopold stood and stepped over to him. He dropped beside the knight who jolted like he’d been stung.

“I meant what I said.” Leopold started. His voice soft. “You look quite handsome. With or without the flowers…”

“Look, uh…” Ernest turned to the man but couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Leopold. That was thoughtless, and I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean that uh… Shit. I’m sorry.” He dropped his gaze again. “My words don’t. Don’t come out right. A lot. Ever really. Worse when uhm.” He paused before taking a slow breath. When he spoke again, he held his head high and his eyes shut. His words came out smooth and intentional. “I find it difficult to speak sometimes, and it gets worse when I am under stress or emotional. I am sorry for putting you on the spot. I should have uh.” Ernest balled his fist as his brief moment passed.

“It’s ok.” Leopold placed his hand on Ernest’s shoulder, and to his delight Ernest seemed to relax under it. “I put two and two together. I’m actually almost flattered that you forgot. I came by under the guise of checking on Elizavet, but if I am to be honest I wanted to come spend time with you. Your family welcomes me without a moment’s hesitation, and you. Well, you were the first person to treat me as a person, not as a title.”

Ernest began to chuckle. He shook his head, smiled, and looked forward. “I can’t believe I forgot a  _ Herald of the Dark Moon  _ was, you know. Walking in her shadow.” When Ernest turned to face Leopold again, there was a glint in his eye. “There’s two things I really know about you, Leopold. The Dark Moon stuff and you’re way out of my league. But if you want to really be welcome here any time…” The two men leaned close. “You gotta let Guillaume do your hair. You win that boy’s heart, and you win over everyone.”

Leopold grimaced before half dropping his head. He had foolishly expected a kiss, not a secret, but just the same, when he met Ernest’s half-guarded expression, he knew it would be worth it to earn his affection. 

\-----

Elizavet had been so excited over Val that her sister had slipped her mind. Though she was alone, her mouth hung open in shock at her own obliviousness, and she quickly darted back to camp for more paper. She spotted her father and her knight idly chatting while her other uncle seemed to hold her teacher in place undoubtedly talking about his daughter-- Eirlys! Marigold! Franklin! More people she needed to write to! She snatched a piece of paper from her father’s stash before he saw her and began to scribble out the notes.

_ Sasha! It’s your sissy, Lizzy! I learned that the gods will let me write to you, and I wanted to let you know that we are all OK. Dad doesn’t know yet, well he knows but he doesn’t know because I haven’t told him I succeeded yet and thats ok because Ill let him write his own letter later but more importantly I LOVE YOU. I love you so much lil sissy, and I cant wait till we get this curse broken and I can come home and help you with your math again. I know you dont want to be a knight like your big sissy, and thats ok I guess. Someone has to follow after Dad ha ha. I met a really cute girl in Catarina. Her names Valentina~ She taught me how to send these. Ill tell you more about her next time I write. I can only send so many letters a day, so Im going to send this one to you AND to Miss Marigold so her family can read from us too. _

_ Marigold and Franklin and sweet little Eirlys: ok I know you arent little Eirlys but your papa is a wreck out here. Hes safe and fine but hes a wreck. He misses you all constantly and any chance he gets he tells people about you. Read above how you got this letter. Uncle Lyle gives his love but he doesn’t know I’m writing these yet. Hed be ALL OVER ME if he knew, and I can’t send that many in a day! Its really draining, actually. But its worth it. I know you cant write back, but just being able to write home and knowing you all get these makes a world of difference over here.  _

_ PS I stole paper from Dad which is why this is all jammed together on one sheet. I want it to be a surprise for him tomorrow, but I wanted you all to have a heads up before the long flurries of I love yous and a five hundred page account of everything weve done including using ox poo for fire wood. Youd never know.  _


	12. Eulogy for Bernard

“I’d like to uh. Thank you all for coming,” Ernest began before the small circle of friends and family. His expression was inscrutable. “I know Bernie would have thought this was weird, and he would have wanted to die like we’re supposed to, but none of us are going to get that.” A cough. “And our ways went up in flames back home, so we’re trying Catarina’s ways. So I uh. I guess I’ll get started.”

He leaned back on the cart behind him where his brother lay and pulled a note from his pocket. With a smile, he began to read from it. “According to Catarinan tradition, we share stories about the dead. Well Bernard was born in Kienden, as was I, to our mothers Cheryl and Francine. He was going to turn forty-two today… Momma, Nana, and I called him Bernie, but to you all he was Bernard. The Adamant if we’re being formal. Bernard was the most sensible man I uh. I ever knew. He was the best brother a man could ever want. Strong. Supportive. Loving. Sometimes he was more of a rock for me than even our mothers.”

Ernest paused as his eyes began to water. He wanted to be able to say these things not just for his brother but for his mothers as well, but they would have to come later. He would speak for all of them at the end of their journey.

“Once,” he continued, “When we were little, Nana brought us some glass marbles. We were old enough to know better, but Bernard got this wicked look in his ten year old eye and asked me how many marbles I could stick up my nose. I uh… I got one then couldn’t get another in the other nostril. We tried for about half an hour before we gave up. At the time it was hilarious. Six year old me and my ten year old brother. He would say that he found me sticking the marbles in my nose and tried to stop me, but I remember him uh. Encouraging me. He didn’t put any marbles in  _ his  _ nose…”

“I trusted him blindly most of my life. He used to also call me randomly just to see me come running. I’d uh. I’d do it every time. Like a puppy. The shit would be sitting at his desk drawing a bug, yell for me, then ask me to open his window. I’d do it. I’d get annoyed, but it was a game… At least once he called me while I was uh. Getting dressed. I’d run over to him, half dressed, pants falling off, no matter who else was in the house. He did that to me the day I met Maria. I’d follow him to the ends of the earth if he called me.” 

“When we were older, right before he was knighted, a girl had her eye on him. He didn’t know how to shake her. She’d sit in the town square waiting for him, then she’d pounce on him and take his arm like they were already together. He uh, heh, he didn’t know how to tell her off, so he decided that they were cousins. He told her, one day, that they were related, and came home looking so relieved and relaxed. Well she quickly found out and--” A giggle came from somewhere in the gathering. “Hi Mary-Ann. Well she found out and confronted him. He ran screaming.”

“Did not.” Came a suspiciously masculine voice from behind Ernest. 

“Yes you did. I was there. Now shut up, and keep being dead.” Ernest elbowed the ‘corpse’ behind him and continued to read. “You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but sometimes Bernard was a real shit who didn’t let his brother tell his stories.  _ As I was saying.  _ He broke that uh. That poor girl’s heart, got a cackling lecture from Nana on how to turn people down and mean it, and then went on with his life.”

“You’re supposed to tell flattering stories,” said the supposedly dead Bernard. “Not the embarrassing things. Oh the things I could tell about you, little brother. Like how you tried to write your name in booger--”

“Save it for when I’m dead!” Ernest plopped his hand over Bernard’s mouth to silence him only for Bernard to lick his palm. Ernest recoiled in disgust much to Bernard’s satisfaction. “If you want a flattering story, fine. Once when we were both working on our knighthood, Bernard took a drawing he’d done of an ant to the local chapel. He wanted someone to praise him, and they did. There. Flattering. Now stop interrupting.”

The brothers shared a half-contemptuous glare before breaking into smiles. The supposedly dead Bernard had shifted to prop himself on his elbow and stare down his brother. Then he hopped up, sat on the edge of the cart, and called out.

“Who else wants to share embarrassing stories about me? I’ve got one, but after that I’m turning this on my dear brother for all the kind things he’s said about me. Haunting my own funeral and all.”

When he grinned, he was gorgeous. And Mary-Ann, the woman from before, spoke up.

“You’re dashing even in death, Bernard. I don’t regret chasing you in my youth. But I remember when we were about fifteen-- same age as your kiddo there-- we were trying to deal with some overgrown plant. A group of us squires were just going to chop it up, but Bernard here had the brilliant idea of burning it back. And it worked. Problem was, none of us had ever done a controlled burn, and Bernard here thought we didn’t need help. I looked over after digging a dirt trench to see Bernard trying to help his brother only for his own patch get loose. Ser Gunther’s rhododendrons were never the same…” 

As more people offered up stories to Bernard’s delight and horror, his son began to slink off. A part of him wanted to know more about his father’s life, but he couldn’t handle how they were talking about him like he was dead. Some of them, like the woman, gave up on the charade, but it only took a few to shake Guillaume. He slipped away during a story he knew well-- the one of when he was brought home-- and ventured into a nearby camp. He’d never really mingled with this camp despite knowing they were always close. For the past several weeks he’d been practically glued to either Elizavet’s or Ernest’s sides-- for basic knighthood training with his uncle and simple friend things with Elizavet. Not to mention the time it took getting to know and understand both oxen. 

He came across a man leaning back on a large traveling pack. Though it was hot, the man was clothed from his toes to his neck with a straw hat over his face. 

“Excuse me,” the boy started. “Do you mind if I sit with you? I don’t want to wander too far, but I can go elsewhere too.”

The man stretched, arched his back and extended his arms above him, and replied through his hat. “No, you can stay. Not my land.”

Guillaume dropped down where he stood to hide in the grass. He knew the man was still there, and he could see him, but it helped him feel a bit more secure. Almost as though he had a blanket. He’d seen both of his grandmothers after their deaths, and he’d seen his uncle take the lives of other people. He’d seen his father do the same. It was grisly, it was cruel, he hated it, but he’d taken part in it himself. 

The tears that would not fall instead ran down his throat and out his nose. He shuddered and sniffled at the thought of his father being the one to die. Of having to do for his father what his father had done for Maria, and his sniffles turned to whimpers. He’d tucked his knees into his chest and hid his face in his arms when he felt a light hand on his shoulder.

“Are you OK, sonny?”

Guillaume looked up to see the man’s rotten face. He froze in horror at his clouded eyes and desiccated cheek, but the man didn’t seem to mind. He just dropped down next to the boy with his hand still on his shoulder.

“I’m Mitchel.” His smile tugged on his dead flesh and made apparent the discoloration of the remaining soft tissue. “I still have my mind, but my body seems to have other plans. You can run, if you like. I won’t blame you. Not a bit. But before you do, I’m still a person, so try not to scream. I find that hurts the most.”

When Guillaume said nothing, Mitchel moved his hand from his shoulder.

“Do you… mind if I sit with you?”

“Yes. I mean no! No! I don’t mind.”

Mitchel sat with the crying boy, but before he could ask him, Guillaume began to dump it all at the man’s feet.

“M-my dad’s alive. He’s undead, and it’s his birthday, and they decided they wanted to have a funeral, and they’re talking about him like he’s dead but  _ he’s right there,  _ and it really hurts because he’s not dead, and everyone is acting like he is. But he’s a knight, and my uncle’s a knight, and I have no cousins, so they’re probably going to die before we even get there, and I’ll have no one, and I’ll be alone, and-- and--”

Without warning, Guillaume fell against Mitchel’s side and began to bawl. The man awkwardly wrapped his arms around the boy before beginning to tut and pat his back. 

“There, there, sonny. A little morbid humor went too far.”

The man’s clothes were hot from the sun, and his chest still moved with breath. Without seeing his face, Guillaume wouldn’t have known he looked dead. 

“But,” Guillaume pulled away to wipe his tears. “What about when he  _ does  _ die?”

“Then he dies. We all die. Contrary to what this curse implies, one day we’ll all be ashes or dirt fit for worms and plants. Our deaths give new life. Like composting for a garden.”

“How am I supposed to handle that…”

“Well.” Mitchel leaned back, the sun in his eyes. “That’s the thing. People die every day, and no one’s really mastered handling it. You can wear gloves to stop the oven from burning you, and you can wear armor to stop a sword from piercing you, but you can’t stop loss. You just gotta… roll with it I guess. Rolling with a punch still hurts, but it hurts less than just taking it.”

\-----

Hamlin was fondly telling the story of how they first introduced their children when Bernard hopped off the cart and scanned the crowd. He didn’t hear Hamlin question his parting-- all he knew was that his boy was not there, and that would not do. Bernard did not bother to give a reason for his sudden departure. Hamlin’s words trailed off as Bernard left the gathering. He looked to Ernest before whispering, “Have I offended him?”

With a shrug, the two of them watched him go.

It wasn’t hard for Bernard to track his son. He understood his penchant for finding people and his desire to seek comfort in another’s happiness. When he wasn’t loudly speaking at one nearby camp, Bernard checked the others, and soon enough he heard his son chattering away with a stranger by the side of the road. He saw the stranger’s tall pack and straw hat before anything else. But, sure enough, he soon saw his son’s blond mop of hair peeking up out of the grass. For a while, he just listened.

“And then when we drank some of the wine, it bubbled into our noses! It wasn’t just fun-- it tasted really good too. Really sweet like juice and not wine at all! Turns out they offer up pearls to Lady Gwynevere, and she gives back little kisses in return!”

“Back in my youth, we used to take an ankle bone from a deer, and put it in our beer. It didn’t bubble, but we thought it would bring luck on our hunts.”

“Well after we started drinking, we all started to dance! Someone lifted me off of my feet and spun me around, Elizavet spun that girl around-- those two danced all night and drank so much.”

Bernard’s heart twinged as he listened and realized Guillaume hadn’t told him about his night in Catarina. He lingered, listening to his son recount his tales in no particular order, before he caught the eye of the stranger. His heart stopped. The man was dead. Plain on his face, plain for all to see. The decay. The dessication. Like a corpse laid too long in the battlefield. But the corpse smiled, teeth mostly intact, and waved.

“Hello!” The corpse-- the stranger called out. His voice clear.

“Dad?!” Guillaume jumped to his feet, his eyes suddenly glossy, and charged into his father. “Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t sit through your birthday! I’m sorry!” He held his father like he was drowning. He pressed his face into his father’s shoulder and began to sob.

“Gui. Gui, it’s ok.” Bernard held him and began to rock side to side. “What’s going on? Who is…” He glanced over to the stranger. “Your new friend?”

“I just…” The boy tightened his hug. “I don’t want to think about you being dead. I’m not ready for you to be dead.”

“Well…” Bernard returned the hug with renewed vigor. “We’re undead, and if that means what I think it means, we will have a great deal more time than we would have if we were still living.”

“But what if you go like Maria..?”

“Guillaume.” Bernard pulled back to look him in the eyes, his face stern. “I swear to you that I will not lose myself as she did. You are my anchor, my son, and so long as you live, I will have reason to go on. You will  _ never  _ lose me. Even,” he smirked. “If you try.”

Bernard held his son until the boy pulled away. Guillaume smiled at his father before gesturing to the man still sitting by the road.

“This is Mitchel. He’s um. More visibly cursed, but he’s a good man. Do um… Dad, do you mind if he travels with us?”

“A friend of my son’s is a friend of mine. He is welcome to join us.”

\-----

Bernard walked infront of his son and their new companion. If anyone had anything to say about a walking corpse joining them, it would be better to say it to him rather than his son or the man in question. At first, Hamlin accused him of playing a joke, but when Mitchel arrived their small troupe was silent. He shuffled his heavy pack under their judgement, but no one spoke.  Guillaume made certain to put himself between Mitchel and the rest of the group, but that did little to stop prying eyes. Finally, Bernard spoke.

“As you all can see, my son has found another stray. That’s not something to  _ gawk  _ at. It seems,” he paused to hold a man’s glare. “That I have raised my son to be more thoughtful than some of you turned out to be. If you are going to start something, you can leave. This is my funeral, and I have the right to decide who gets to be here.”

Randolf stood, and for a moment Bernard thought he intended to defy him, but the knight simply walked by him, placed a hand on his shoulder, then stood behind him placing himself between the group and Mitchel. He knew nothing about the ‘stray’ Guillaume had brought home, but the boy had a good sense for good people. Even if one of those people looked like month old beef. 

A few people parted. A quiet “we must tell the queen” ran through the group like a shiver, but the ambiance of friendly storytelling and gentle teasing soon returned. Randolf had taken a place by Mitchel’s side, and though the man seemed nervous at first, having the knight with him gave him a sense of security. And then he recognized him.

“Randolf,” he began with a slight cough. “This is a bit awkward but… You do recognize me, don’t you?”

“I do.” The knight pulled off his helmet and gave a bashful smile. “Don’t worry. I wash my hands. I’m not going to let anyone treat you like I did. I won’t run away from you like that again.”

As the night passed and the day began, the march moved ever forward. The well-worn road took them from fields of great grasses to sparse forests and light woods. By the evening, the soft ground gave way to rocky earth. 

\-----

_ Darling Val, _

_ I await your letters with great excitement. I know what time of day they ought to arrive, and I have gotten quite good at catching them! I appreciate the routine. My uncle writes to his family with such great fervour that my father has cut his supply of paper. It is not out of cruelty but necessity. Most recently we had to trade a jar of honey for more paper, and so I am very careful not to waste any. Though my father might point out where I could save space and use less letters and perhaps even develop shorthand. I will take his advice  _ **_after_ ** _ I finish this letter.  _

_ We passed a flock of golden birds flying north. They landed on a tree together and stripped it of its berries. Guillaume got close to one before it flew off, but I was hoping he’d catch it. It’s better he didn’t, I suppose. But they were beautiful. The patches of tan and green on their shoulders seemed to blend in with the gold as if they weren’t feathered but rather furred. I know they had feathers. I found one. They were magical. Leopold has been dropping by more often. He called them “waxwings”. It fits I suppose, but they reminded me of you. How soft they looked, how cheery they were, how we couldn’t catch one. They’re smart. _

_ I have a conundrum, and I know precisely who to go to to solve it. You. Bernard (Gui’s father) will be turning 42 this year, but it is hard to celebrate a birthday when we’re all undead. Oh I hate admitting to that. It is a painful truth. In Berenike we would have helped him with house repair or brought him a useful gift. New chain links for his armor or leather or new boots, but none of us have anything new. We must break from tradition, and what better tradition to lean on than Catarina’s? What do you say? _

_ With great affection, _

_ Elizavet the Joyous _

\-----

_ Dearest Elizavet _

_ They say that the heretical pyromancers of the great swamp hold the Flame in their very hands, but my dearest Elizavet I could not imagine holding anything more precious than the love of another. They say that love is like the Flame, that love is dangerous like the Flame, and I wonder if those pyromancers love their flames. Perhaps that is why we call our lovers our “flames” and refer to past affairs that never quite died out as “old flames.” My brother has an old flame that still sparks in his heart when he sees them. Maybe one day our flames will dim, but for now my affection for you is so bright it blinds me.  _

_ The waxwings are a welcome sight, and when they make it this far north I will think of you. Perhaps the next time I collect one of their feathers, I will fashion it in such a way that I might place it on my talisman. You flatter me so with such a comparison that I will melt like butter under your radiance.  _

_ As for your question, in Catarina when we mourn our dead we do so with celebration. We lay the body out upon a bench draped in white cloth and decorate the head with flowers or branches depending on the season. In the fall, we collect goldenrod from the fields. In the winter, the spiked bushes with the red berries. In the spring, fresh buds. In the summer, the flowers from our fields and gardens. We anoint the body with wine on the forehead, the mouth, and the sternum for the mind, the love, and the breath. And then we party. We all share tales, some more exaggerated than others, of the departed. Sometimes someone stands before those gathered and we take turns, sometimes we simply mingle and chat. It depends on the family, truly. We grieve, and we hurt, but I would not want such sorrow over my passing. I would want those around me to remember me when they say good bye. To think well of me as my soul parts.  _

_ Depending on his humor, you might hold a Catarinan funeral for him. Let me know how that goes.  _

_ With great affection, _

_ Valentina  _


	13. Brightbug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, and welcome back!

Mitchel stood in the forest away from the camp and the smothering affection of the boy’s family. His own family hadn’t quite abandoned him, but he couldn’t stand the way they stared at him. How they constantly asked him if he was ok.  _ Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts. You sure you’re doing alright?  _ When he first sulked away, they let him go. To them he must have been like a dog sneaking away to die. 

He snorted at the thought. 

Gods forbid a man take his pipe and wander off to just be alone for a while. And the woods of Thorolund were pretty. Strange, but beautiful. He sat under a large grey tree with smooth bark and prominent roots. The leaves above him were soft and new, green light filtered down from the afternoon sun, and the soil gently gave beneath his feet. With his pipe in hand, he felt he might even sleep.

Perhaps he had, for it seemed as though he’d merely closed his eyes and the sun had given way to the evening. Mitchel could still hear the camp behind him, and either they had trusted he would come back or-- no. He would not let doubt settle in him. They were not his family. He had no reason to doubt them yet. 

The dim light of dusk was enough to guide him back to the caravan, but as he stood from his comfortable spot among the trees, he saw a small flash of light. It lingered for a moment before disappearing then reappearing mere feet away. The dancing light was slow, almost lazy, as it floated through the air. Mitchel reached out and clasped his hands around it trying to catch it. He felt something wet, and when he looked, he saw the light smeared across his palms with the remnants of a beetle. 

Fear struck him-- he’d killed the creature, and his crime was painted upon his hands. And what gentle creature might glow like this without the blessing of a god? He turned back to the camp both afraid to admit his crime and desperate to warn them of how delicate the beetle was when he felt something hit him and burst. A grey fog surrounded him and filled him with cold. His thoughts grew hazy as he stumbled through the trees, but something caught his foot, and he fell. 

\-----

Leopold felt almost called to the forest. Inspired to walk in the moon’s light. There was something here for him, and though his goddess had not commanded him with words, she had urged him there nonetheless. He adored her subtlety. He heard the snap of a twig and then froze. Peace settled upon him, and he knew he was not alone.

“She called you here.” A figure in brass armor stepped into the clearing with him-- a woman with a voice rich and deep like the night sky. “In the light of the Dark Moon, we meet.”

“In the shadow of the Dark Sun, I see you.”

The woman scoffed-- a half laugh-- at Leopold’s greeting. She flipped up her visor to appraise him. Her skin was fair like his own, but her nose was soft, her eyes blue, and her hair blonde. For a moment, Leopold’s heart fluttered. 

“You are the one guiding the nation of undead then?” She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword. 

“Yes. I am Leopold of Vinheim, Blade of the Dark Moon. Her Herald sent to Berenike.”

“I am Chandra of Thorolund. Blade of the Dark Moon. Sent to punish this land for the murder of Samson, Herald to Thorolund.”

Whatever soft thoughts had been drifting through Leopold’s mind fled like birds from a wildfire. For a moment, he saw red and heard the harsh wails of ghastly sirens. His hands drew into fists.

“How wonderful it is that the nation of undead worships a god of war,” Leopold spat. “How magnificent the retribution shall be.”

“I don’t know your duty, Leopold. But mine is limited to this keep. I have not yet made an example of the one who ordered Samson’s death, but I have slain many who would protect him. In doing so, I discovered something. A boy with sunblessed skin whose name I have not yet ascertained, but who I know belongs to your nation of undead.”

“A boy?” Leopold looked to her, wide eyed with concern.

“Everyone’s a child when you get to be our age. He’s in his adulthood, no doubt. A scout captured yesterday morning.” Leopold let out an audible sigh. Chandra cocked an eyebrow and continued. “These murderers seek to break the curse without the guidance of the Dark Moon. They think that their false idol can liberate them. I know these people-- I was born in this keep. They are backwards and broken and will break everything they touch, but Carim allows them to remain ignorant so that they never threaten their power.”

Her fists were shaking as she tried to reel herself in. 

“Your knights need to remain on the defensive, for if you assault this shitty little cesspit, you will bring Carim down upon them. Carim acknowledges Gwyndolin--”

“Yes, I am aware.” He raised a hand to stop her before she began to rant. “The murder of one of our own is not something I can turn a blind eye to, but it seems that I won’t have to. They’ve captured an undead?” 

Chandra nodded.

“Then we will simply be acting in self defense. Chandra, what do you say to my picking a handful of knights and joining you in retribution?”

\-----

“Relax, kid.” Randolf was watching Guillaume with mild irritation. Mitchel hadn’t come back that night, and the boy couldn’t shake that something had happened to him, but Randolf knew better. He’d been spending more time with the man. He’d been one of the first to run away from him, but he wasn’t going to let that happen again. He found some measure of peace in Mitchel-- the man was visibly undead, but his mind was whole. Somehow it helped him come to terms with what happened to his mother, and though he knew he should feel bad using Mitchel like that, he also liked the man for who he was. 

“But he didn’t come back last night! And we’re moving on today!” Guillaume wouldn’t stop pacing. Dawn had just broken, and the boy was already filling everyone with nervous energy. “Why wouldn’t he come back?”

“Because he doesn’t like to be smothered.” He shrugged. “I tell you what. Next time Leopold comes around to try and court Ernest, I’ll file a missing persons report with him. OK?” That did little to ease Guillaume’s agitation, but Randolf decided to ignore him after that. He’d tried. The kid was Ernest’s problem now. Let that emotionally stunted idiot try and calm him down. Randolf smirked as he thought about the overly affectionate herald trying to woo Ernest. How Ernest stood awkwardly and stuttered, unintentionally rebuffing Leopold’s advances. Oh, Ernest was gorgeous-- Randolf knew that. He wasn’t blind. But he wasn’t worth the effort. He would have pitied Leopold if it wasn’t so funny. 

And sure enough the man arrived before the day’s march. He had a schedule it seemed. Pop in before the march, flirt with Ernest, leave, drop by after the march, go on his rounds as a Dark Moon cleric or whatever, come back in the morning. He was a pretty man. A sharp nose and pale skin. Hair darker than the night sky. He would have been all over that if Leopold wasn’t so head over heels for  _ Ernest.  _

Randolf stuffed the resentment down before approaching the man. He cut him off before Leopold could reach Ernest. Stood in his way and raised a hand. The Herald paused, expression hidden in his brass armor. 

“Excuse me, Leopold, but one of our group, a man named Mitchel, didn’t come back last night. Guillaume’s stressing everyone out, so I told him I’d let you know.”

For his part, Randolf didn’t expect anything to come of it. He expected Leopold to brush him off and continue on his routine. He didn’t. He held Randolf’s gaze in uncomfortable silence before pulling out his talisman.

“I will return shortly.”

He disappeared in a circle of golden light, and Randolf began to walk back to the cart. To his frustration, Hamlin, Lyle, Bernard, and Ernest all cornered him. 

“What did you do?” Came from Hamlin.

“Where did-- why did--” stuttered Ernest.

“What was that about?” Lyle.

Only Bernard kept his mouth shut. Randolf rolled his eyes and pushed through them, throwing his hands in the air. 

“I didn’t  _ do  _ anything. I’m not chasing off your boyfriend, Ernest. I just told him Mitchel didn’t come back. Cut me some slack. I’m not out to get you.”

\-----

Leopold appeared before the bonfire. The Queen turned at his sudden arrival, her expression dour. Though he was not subservient to her, he still knelt before her.

“Queen Concordia, there is a second report of a missing person.”

“Then reach out to your contact. We will adjust our course of action as is needed. Find out what you can and return to me. If this land is so hostile as to blatantly attack us, we must defend ourselves. Perhaps the Storm will bless us in this endeavor.” 

Leopold stood and nodded. He knew where he could find his contact. Where he could find Chandra.

The caravan began its slow travel through the land, and as it did so, Leopold had reached out to his fellow Blade through the miracle Elizavet had brought him. The knights who saw Chandra parted to let her pass. They were used to Leopold, but she was taller and commanded the crowd about her much like their queen. 

Concordia cracked a smile when she saw the Blade approach.

“They believe me to be wounded and on the run.” Chandra began speaking loudly for those gathered. The clergy and the council drew near as she stood before their queen. “They have called in a single paladin, a man on horse back in full armor and great faith in his false god. He wields a holy shield and a great hammer. When he landed a blow upon my helmet, I cried out and withdrew. Surprise will be on our side.”

“What of their fortifications? This keep? Where will they be holding my scout?”

“The castle is on a hill with a town surrounding it. There is one main gate-- a portcullis-- facing west. They do not know my face, and I appear like any other local, so I have been able to come and go freely. Past the portcullis is an open area with the stables to the left, a well off center, and the kitchens built into the northern wall also to the left. To the south is the great hall, the monastery, and the orphanage. The orphanage is built beneath the monastery under the ground, and sectioned off is an area they use for short term prisoners. The curtain wall and the main tower are to the east, facing Catarina. Machicolations line the walls with murder holes placed in the portcullis.”

“There are four monks living in the monastery, twenty noncombatants, seven orphans, and eight military personnel. There were ten, but two stood in my way. The monks are soft noncombatants, but the paladin came specifically to deal with me for the retribution kills to their guards. He will be more difficult to deal with, but…” Chandra looked over the knights gathered. “I think that won’t be an issue. What  _ will  _ be an issue is that they’ve developed a way to disable the undead. I suspect they’re breaking the connection to the bonfire, but it appears to be temporary. It will be imperative that any undead you send be aware of this and be accompanied by either Leopold or myself as we are still living.”

Queen Concordia held Chandra’s gaze as she contemplated her words. Slowly she turned to Leopold.

“Pick two knights from the group that knew the lost undead. Pick those who can climb or shoot. I will trust your judgement. I will assemble a small group to make swift work of this.”

Leopold nodded and made his way swiftly back to Ernest’s camp. He already knew who he would send back, he just hoped his heart wasn’t clouded. When he was gone, Concordia turned to her council.

“Julienne! Helena!” The two councilmen stepped forward at their queen’s behest. “Either volunteer or select someone with great faith. Someone who can chant the shield prayer. I want our knights appearing invincible. The path of Thunder will protect them. Jude! Laurel!” Two more councilmen stepped forward. “Bring me a sniper. Someone with a longbow who can hit the eye of a mouse in the heart of a storm.”

She turned towards two more councilmen in their strange armor. They would stand out, but she wanted this land to fear them. If they feared their knights, they wouldn’t dare attack again. 

“Tarkus. Joule.” A dark smile spread across her lips. “I want you two to see this operation through  _ personally.  _ You especially, Joule.”

Tarkus’s armor wasn’t particularly strange. It was heavy and it was black, but it wasn’t terribly fearsome. Joule’s armor was fashioned in the shape of a snarling beast. It was brown when dry and deep crimson when wet. If the Storm did indeed bless them, then Joule’s armor would appear to be soaked in blood. Joule caught on immediately and returned her smile. 

\-----

Ernest and Bernard followed Leopold to their queen. Randolf had watched them, slack jawed, as Leopold offered no explanation before taking them. He knew something was not right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the overcast sky dampening his mood, or the fact that Leopold had taken Bernard and not just Ernest. He would not have his answer, but later, he and the remaining knights would be called to guard the caravan.

Their queen, her council, an unfamiliar Blade, and two more knights stood waiting for them. The brothers each dropped a knee in deference.

“I recognize you, Bernard the Adamant.” There was a lightness to the queen’s voice. A smile. The briefest impression before she turned her sights on the brother. “I suspect you are Ernest the Devoted. Maria spoke highly of both of you, and Leopold still does. You will be joining Red Dust Joule, Black Iron Tarkus, Basil the True, and Daisy the Whisper on an assault against the pitiful castle that holds our scout and your friend. Red Dust and Black Iron will lead the charge and scale the wall, while Whisper will support you through the Storm’s favor. True will remain behind to pick off any who would come for you from atop the walls. You may stand.”

With the order from their queen came the first raindrop of a mighty storm. 


	14. Reprisal

“You’re up, big fella.” Daisy the Whisper, a knight assigned by the Queen, slapped Joule’s back between the shoulders. Joule was massive, a head taller than the rest of them with a hulking figure in the pouring rain. They smiled, their teeth shining through the maw of their beastly helmet, and began to walk through the trees to the northward side of the keep.  Their armor was a thing of legend said to have been forged through divine inspiration with the blood of the mountain itself. According to that legend, only the councilman’s regular application of dry clay effectively absorbed the blood that still wept from the metal, but that clay washed away in the rain. While Leopold and Chandra had slipped into the castle (since they were both alive and appeared to belong), Joule marched through the rain dripping with red water behind them. Their massive sword strapped to their back, they would scale the side of the keep while Basil picked off any who would stand on the wall and try to knock them off. 

Ernest let out a pent up breath. Daisy smiled at him before punching him in the gut and winking at his ‘oof.’

“Don’t worry, cutie.” She said. “That wall looks like shit. A child could climb it in a blizzard.” 

Basil said nothing as he strung his bow and watched Joule. The two others that had joined them, Tarkus and Bernard, stood and watched the unfolding mayhem. Joule left a large red streak behind them, and the guards watching the keep wall began to scream and panic. Unprepared for an assault, they tried to cast down rocks and whatever they had on them, but even in the rain Joule simply turtled and continued slowly climbing. Basil drew back on the drawstring and let fly an arrow. 

The first guard fell as the wind rose strongly enough to batter at the bodies of the knights and guards alike.

More people gathered on the wall to throw stones at the red and bloody monster that scaled their keep, but Joule was not discouraged. At first Basil only targeted the guards, but he knew that those waiting on the wall would attack the councilman once they reached the top. With a smug grin, he began to pick off whoever was foolish enough to try and knock Joule from the wall. In less than a minute, the fearsome councilman mounted the top of the wall and tore their great sword from their back. Ernest wished he could have seen it first hand-- the red bloodlike water running down their shoulders and flying from their blade, the terrible visage of a nightmarish creature eternally soaked in red wielding a blade taller than any man-- but all he saw from the edge of the woods was the red figure of Joule vaguely swinging a greatsword.

He sighed.

With a quick salute and a whistle, Tarkus marched towards the open gate. There were cries from within to close it but Leopold and Chandra had done their swift work on the guards. Only Basil remained to continue supporting Joule. In the growing winds, Bernard and Ernest took to Daisy’s sides as she began the Thundering War Prayer.

_ Rolling Thunder hear my prayer! _

_ To my allies bring strength! _

_ To my foes despair! _

Ernest felt the prickle of electricity pull on his body and his hair stand on end beneath his armor and cap. It had been too long since he’d fought with his countrymen. Too long since he’d felt the blessings of his lord upon him. He knew their task was dire, that they would exact harsh revenge, and that two men’s lives depended on their success, but he wanted to relish the moment while he had it. The moment before the slaughter. The calm before the storm.

Joule had a different experience. Each life they took cleared their mind. They felt as though they were slipping into a warm bath after walking naked through the snow. It almost hurt, but it was a good pain that quickly shifted into comfort and drunkenness. Climbing under the blankets with one’s spouse and three dogs, warm and secure. The fog lifting with the morning sun. But instead of gentle warmth, they were cleaving into the flesh of ill prepared men and scattering their blood like wine from a spilt cup. A stone hit them and shattered on the back of their helmet, and when the dust hit their face, they staggered and felt chill, but when Basil’s arrow found its home in another man’s chest, the stupor cleared. 

When no guards dared challenge Joule and all that were left were civilians who had no idea how to use a blade, the councilman briefly considered killing them to prolong the battle-high. They froze with horror. They were a knight of Berenike. A solider. A champion. Not a  _ murderer.  _ And though they were soaked in the blood of their foes and had eaten the souls of their enemies, they were not a monster.

Not yet.

As Joule marched past the few cowering people left on the rampart, Leopold and Chandra made swift work of those who stood against them on the way to the orphanage. As monstrous as it was, the orphanage was where they took the sick and dying, and with it came the shackled beds. How better to take care of the ill than to bind them with iron? 

Together the blades appeared as twin demons. Golden armor flickering in the torchlight. The orphans scattered and clung to the recesses of their wretched home as the Dark Moon’s knights marched swiftly through their ranks. Chandra paused and caught the gaze of the oldest orphan, a child who would soon be cast to the streets. When she beckoned, they slowly approached her with reticence in every step. 

“The Dark Moon smiles upon those of you who choose to leave. Wait until the storm has passed, make your way to the lonely hill, and there you will find me and the Dark Moon’s blessing...”

Leopold, a smaller figure to her imposing image, waited for her before turning to the last door between them and their quarry. She nodded, and he grabbed the handle of the old door only for it to stick. Frustrated at the lock but unwilling to break the door down (for fear of hurting the missing undead), he pulled a small pack of picks and began to work on it. Chandra tapped her foot impatiently with her back to him. While she watched, he fiddled until the lock fell open. Wasting no time, he swung open the door.

Mitchel lay still as the grave shackled to a table. Beside him was a bowl full of some stony powder, and hanging on the wall was the key to his irons, but there was no other soul in the room. Leopold removed a gauntlet to feel for Mitchel’s pulse, but when his hand touched undead skin, he was horrified at how cold the man was and flinched away. He began undoing the locks, but Mitchel remained limp and chill. As Leopold lifted him to his shoulders, carrying Mitchel with his knee looped under his arm and holding onto the limp man’s wrist, he turned to see the empty bed.

There was no blood on the bed or surgical tools hanging beside it. No sign of a typical slaughter. Instead there was a fine ash, and when Leopold ran his hand over it he shuddered. 

“He’s not here.” Leopold said as he stepped out of the room with Mitchel on his shoulder.

“Then we go to their bonfire.” Chandra said as she stepped forward past the orphans with a terrible resolve. In her wake, all Leopold could do was follow.

Ernest, Bernard, and the remaining knights of Berenike raised their shields as they passed through the gate to avoid taking any oil or pummeling from the openings above them. But nothing worthwhile fell upon them, for those who might have defended the keep were desperately terrified of Joule and the storm the knights had brought with them. Lightning silently struck from one cloud to another, but the people of Thorolund feared the omen as evil and hid themselves away.

When the knights cleared the gate and saw Chandra and Leopold, they charged forward to follow them into the keep’s chapel. As they caught up, Tarkus called to the Blades.

“What happened with him?” Tarkus gestured to the limp undead on Leopold’s shoulder. “Where is the other?”

“I do not know,” Leopold responded. “But we are headed to their bonfire.”

The inside of the chapel was cold and dark save for the light of the bright bonfire upon the altar. A woman in white cowered in front of it while men in brown hid behind her. Chandra closed the distance in a few great steps, lifted the woman by her collar, and tossed her to the side sending the men scattering in fear. The men scattered like roaches exposed to the light, but they found no escape as the knights quickly cut off their exits and corralled them towards the altar. Only the girl remained still.

As Bernard’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he focused on the flame and the strange bones within it. The bonfires of Berenike had few bones within them as they were limited to the sainted remains left at the Struck Tree. But there was something off about this bonfire. The bonfire before him had the freshly cleaned bones of a dead man with bits of flesh and sinew still attached. Bones that were whole and recognizable. A femur. A skull. A poorly cleaned ribcage. Something snapped in him as he made the connection between the bones and their missing scout. 

“You have been judged by the Dark Moon--” Chandra’s words fell upon the crowd. “And have been found guilty of murder. Make peace with your false gods, for this is your end.”

Ernest looked to Tarkus for guidance. He was not keen on slaughtering those who could not defend themselves, and neither, it seemed, was Tarkus for he simply stood idly by while Chandra and Leopold drew their blades. Bernard, for his part, was eager to join in the carnage and barely needed encouragement. His face turned as though he were possessed by some bestial demon. His smooth and noble features were replaced with the curled snarl of a cruel man and the hateful eyes of a monster. Ernest balked as Bernard crushed the nearest cleric beneath his hammer then hit another with the edge of his shield. 

“Bernard!” He called to his brother in horror. “Bernard! Bernie!” Ernest feared getting between him and his rampage-- he feared his brother turning on him in this moment of fury. “Adamant!  _ Bernard! _ ” His cries grew desperate, but his brother didn’t respond. Blood pooled on the floor while the Blades did their grim work. With every death, Mitchel twitched and stirred. Chandra and Leopold killed the clerics in more gruesome and creative ways, and for a moment Ernest wondered if Bernard was just being merciful. But then he spoke.

“That’s our dead they’re burning.” Rage permeated Bernard’s voice. “They killed our scout, they scrapped his bones, and they tossed him in the fire.” He turned to the one remaining survivor. The woman in white. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The girl cowered. Blood from the slaughter stained her robes. She shook her head meekly. “You are not.” Her voice quiet and quivering.

But before Bernard could do anything more, Ernest lunged forward and grabbed his wrist.

“Bernie! Bernie look at me!” He shook Bernard until his brother met his terrified gaze. “Bernard, you’re scaring me. This isn’t you! This isn’t what you do. You don’t murder. My brother doesn’t murder the unarmed. My brother doesn’t murder people who’ve already surrendered.”

Bernard’s face contorted, but he couldn’t respond. He wanted to shout, to scream, to cry, to rampage, but he couldn’t. He stared at the fire with the nameless scout’s bones lazily burning in it, and he wanted to burn down the whole damn keep. He wanted to go to war, but with Ernest standing there with fear plain upon his face… His heart was torn between his truth and the emotions of the present. With no way to act further, he watched as Leopold approached the flame with Mitchel and gently laid the undead upon it. Its warmth seemed to soak into him, and in mere moments the man was awake and screaming. 

Mitchel grabbed on to Leopold, lunged forward, and sobbed into him. The woman kept her head down hoping to be ignored and spared from any further slaughter. Chandra watched her, contemplating something, when Tarkus gave an order.

“Daisy,” he began. “Make her an offering. We’re taking our dead back, and we’re going to do so quietly. Bernard, snap out of it and make a traveling sack out of one of the dead monk’s robes. We’ll empty the braiser and take it with us with or without the burning flame. They stole our dead, we’re taking him back.”

Tarkus stepped to the door of the chapel and let out a low whistle. He was disappointed at the lack of fighting he’d actually been able to participate in, but he would have to hound Joule about their experience later. There was something that didn’t sit right with him: Chandra had mentioned an armored paladin they would no doubt encounter, but the knight had made no appearance. Something was wrong, and he needed to be on top of it.

He listened as Daisy spoke to the girl and offered her a place among them. Tarkus didn’t know Daisy personally, but she seemed to be the best choice out of the group for something like this. It didn’t take a very perceptive man to realize how that girl had been treated. How she was thrown in front to the wolves. How she immediately accepted her fate. 

Firekeepers should be treated with respect, not abuse.

Daisy knelt by the young woman and looked into her fearful eyes. “I am Daisy the Whisper of Berenike. Your people stole two of ours. One was a man about your age. We came to this land in good faith only to find cruel men. Come away with us on our pilgrimage to the land of Lords. We can take you to Carim and leave you with the faithful there, but only if you wish it, or you may join us until we reach Anor Londo itself, and our fate is decided by the gods.”

Tarkus did not hear the girl’s answer over the scraping stone of the braiser being tipped and emptied. When he turned to look over it and saw the meager ashes mixed with the burnt bones of their murdered scout, he felt something between vindication and pity. The people had been desperate, but their cruelty would leave them with nothing. They would suffer for it. They would suffer even more than the misery that they had started with. He raised a fist, and the knights began their march back in the downpour.

The people of the town at first hid in their homes. Tarkus in his black armor led the group of four grey knights and two civilians with Joule in the back. Leopold and Chandra remained behind in the chapel finishing their grisly work, and Ernest was glad to miss whatever vile form of retribution the Blades took out upon the dead and still living. He had been too horrified with his own brother’s actions to process how Leopold had committed his acts, but the crumbled and mangled bodies he’d left behind burned into his mind.

The townspeople around them whispered in fear when they saw their firekeeper walking in the center of the knights. Her clothes were bloodied though she walked without limp or injury, and to the people of Thorolund, it could only seem that these invaders had stolen their maiden. The cautious whispers turned to jeers, and words turned into stones as more people left the shelter of their homes to try and take back their keeper. Rocks flew from the townspeople’s hands bouncing harmlessly off of the knights’ armor like the smattering rain. The knights did not break their protective formation keeping Mitchel and the girl from further view and harm as well as they could with their shields surrounding them like a partial wall. They did not draw their weapons. With two of the Queen’s own councilmen leading and rearing the group, no one dared step out of line. But that did not stop the hate filled glares. Bernard’s green eyes flashed like flames, but the mob did not stop following them until they saw smoke coming from the keep. 

The knights followed the great blaze of their Queen’s bonfire. Knights stood guard along the edge of the caravan. Since their arrival to Thorolund, the people of Berenike had begun to travel much more closely together. As they drew nearer to the queen herself, the excess knights dwindled to her typical guard of council and clergy. They stood around her as both her guard and her subordinates awaiting command. When they saw Tarkus and the knights behind him arrive, they parted to let them through.

Tarkus knelt first with the others following in a cascade. Even the girl fell to her knees with her arms crossed over her chest. Water soaked through her clothes as though she had been drowned. She shook from cold.

“Speak, Tarkus. What is your report.”

“My queen,” he began still on one knee. “The people of this township brutally tortured one of our number, murdered another, and fed his bones to their bonfire. The Blades of the Dark Moon have exacted the revenge that their goddess demands for another crime, and we have reclaimed the bones of the scout. In doing so, their town’s bonfire has been extinguished, and their firekeeper has opted to travel with us for reasons of her own.”

“You brought one of the enemy’s clergy into our ranks before your very queen?” Her voice was stiff and cold. “What is your rationale?”

“This woman was thrown before us by cowardly men in an attempt to save their own lives. If she attempts to betray our goodwill, it will be a blemish upon her that she will not survive. Given how swiftly the keep fell to our small numbers, I cannot imagine that she is capable of great acts of war, but poison or subterfuge are still possibilities. The offer was made to take her as far as Carim, and I will guard her personally if you so wish it.”

“Do not be foolish, Tarkus. I would not ask  _ you  _ to guard a pretty girl that  _ you _ took in. Whatever impulse came over you may have been genuine good will, but if the same goodwill does not lie in her heart, then your impression would be your downfall. As for you-- look at me when I speak to you, girl.” The queen waited until the firekeeper lifted her head. “I will uphold the promise of my knights. You are safe among us so long as we are safe among you. No one shall lay a hand upon you or demand any service while you march by our side.”

Concordia wasted no time before turning then to Mitchel and the brothers. “Mitchel, forgive me for demanding this of you, but we need to know what happened. I must implore you to walk with Lenox the Patient and record this tragedy upon paper.” A knight appeared from the group surrounding her, a younger man with a soft face. “Be kind to him as well as patient, Lenox. Whisper, True, Adamant, and Devoted, when you return to your families, you are to rest for the day then join the perimeter guard. Thank you for your excellent work. Dismissed.”

As the knights parted, the rain turned to drizzle and gave way to sunlight.

The first thing Bernard did when they returned to their cart was drop his gear and pull his son into a hug. The boy squeaked when he was lifted into the air and all but crushed, but he didn’t protest. His father was always clingy after battle, and he didn’t mind. Bernard found solace in many things, but people were his favorite. Of all the people, his son was the most comforting. Even when his mothers had been alive, if he didn’t need to confide something, his little boy was there. His childish judgement of obnoxious hugs had always brought him a comfort and a grounding that his brother’s simple acceptance never could. After a while of indulging his father, Guillaume began to squirm, and Bernard set him down.

He smiled at his boy. His blond, kind-hearted son. A boy who never should have been a knight, but who so desperately wanted to follow those he loved. He knew his own heart would shatter if his son died before he did, but such was the life of every parent, and if that should come to pass, it would do so in the future. For now, there was little more than his son’s soft smile and wet hair. 

“Did you get Mitchel back?” Guillaume’s smile fell. “Is he OK?”

“Yes. Mitchel is home. He’s with the council for now. Leopold is currently leaving a message that we are not to be trifled with. It seems this town offended the Dark Moon herself.”

“By leaving a message you mean… You don’t mean something violent, do you? I mean, we’re all defensive waiting for attacks, but that’s not our way-- right? We don’t destroy. We don’t make examples of people. He’s not…” Guillaume glanced nervously towards Ernest. “Making  _ examples  _ out of people, is he?”

Bernard swallowed his guilt and let out a shaky breath. “I acted in a moment of rage and did things I am not proud of, but I suspect even then that my actions were more merciful than that of the two agents of the Dark Moon we left in that keep.”

Guillaume’s eyes widened at the admission. “Dad?” The boy’s voice broke in horror and confusion. “What do you mean?” 

His father hung his head in shame and fought back the sting of tears. If he began to cry, his throat would tighten and words would not flow. “The clerics of that keep committed a great crime against our people. When I saw what they had done, and when I saw the two blades of the Dark Moon begin their execution, I joined in without a second thought. In that moment, I was not a knight but a hangman.” 

Having feared something far worse, Guillaume relaxed. His father’s guilt was a heavy thing, and it was not something he should bear, but his father was a person, and he was beginning to see him more and more for the flawed human being he was. Gone were the days of the flawless and near mythical figure of Father. Here was Bernard, the man who raised him, who still raised him, who would always be his father and his rock, but who was a human being.

“Dad?” Guillaume leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his father. “Only the Storm and the Moon can judge you, and I think the Moon approved.”

At that, Bernard began to sob. A broken, halting, sob.

  
  



	15. Indictment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for brief graphic depictions of violence.

Spring had a way of softening the blows of winter. The first of the birds to return from their long journey south fluffed their feathers in the morning chill and sang their lust with the rising sun. As frost gave way to water running into streamlets and pools, soft ferns shed the warm blanket of detritus and reached for fresh air above. The river swelled with the melting of the mountain peaks-- countless fish left to breed and spawn in the mass exodus of a nation now filled the clear waters.

Far from the river in the hollow remains of a town, a woodpecker with a rusty stomach and red head pounded on the hollow metal of an old oak door’s knocker. The door flew open, and a man shouted out. A tired man filled with the exhaustion of chasing off his morning alarm at dawn each day since the birds returned. 

The man, Franklin, ran his hand over the stone arch of the doorway. “Damn bird... These aren’t real trees…” His husband's great grandfather had carved the stone to look like birch, and it seemed reasonable to assume that they were just that convincing. But gods be damned, that bird would be back to pound on their door like a restless ghost. Maybe he ought to invite it in one day. See what happened. 

His sister in law waved at him as he passed into the kitchen. Agatha was always up early and in bed late. She had always powered through on little, and he wasn’t sure if he envied her or not for it. He and his partners liked their sleep, but when he thought of Lyle his heart twisted. Their daughter, Eirlys, was seven years old, and the four of them could not travel all the way to the land of the lords, but he could imagine nothing more cruel than to send his husband on alone. But if he had followed Lyle, he would have left both Marigold and Eirlys, and that was something none of them wanted.

He stepped quietly back up the stairs to check on his wife. Marigold had grown quiet and mournful, and though she did not say it out loud, he knew why. It had been early, a week after Lyle had gone, that it’d happened. It’d been so early in the pregnancy that there was little to bury, but bury it they had. Together in the ashes of the Struck Tree.

Marigold laid with her golden hair splayed about her and her mouth hanging open in the very image of sleepy perfection. Yet Franklin thought she was beautiful even with the crust of drool running down her cheek. He reached out to brush back her hair from her face when he heard the sudden clomping of young feet running down the stairs followed by much younger squealing. The girls, both his own child and his niece, charged past the bedroom door and into the kitchen in their nighties. Franklin chuckled as Marigold jolted awake, but he bent down to kiss her forehead and whisper, “I’ve got it.”

The girls plowed into Agatha’s lap ignoring all pretense and began to climb on the table. “Mom!” Sasha tugged on her mother’s sleeve. “Did Lizzy write? Did Papa write?” 

Eirlys showed little more restraint as she stood on a chair to look over the paper in front of her aunt. “Did you finish fixing Lizzy’s handwriting?” Can we read them yet?! Did mister Mitchel come back?”

Agatha sighed. Sasha’s hand had smudged the ink of the letter she’d been working on-- not that it really mattered with Lizzy’s handwriting. She idly wondered if she wrote so sloppily to this “Val” she spoke so highly of. 

“Sasha…” Her voice was stern. “I cannot finish the letter if you’re on top of it. Now why don’t you two make breakfast for Marigold? She must not be feeling well if she’s not awake yet.”

Knowing full well that Marigold was  _ never  _ awake that early, the girls hopped down from the table to start frying the vegetables and eggs they’d prepared the day before.

It was true that Agatha hadn’t finished transcribing the letter, but there was another reason she wasn’t ready to let the girls read it. In her previous letter, Elizavet had spoken of people going missing, and the girls were desperate to know if they’d been found. Elizavet had the answer, but there were some truths she wanted to keep from the girls.

_ Agatha, Franklin, Marigold _

_ Thorolund is a far more vile place than we had anticipated. The generosity of Catarina had softened us to the harshness of such a journey and the desperation of the nations we may yet encounter. Mitchel is back with us again, but the people who stole him did so with the worst of intent. Our undead bones feed the flames, and it seems they discovered that before we did. They killed the scout, the first man to go missing, and did grisly, ghastly, things to his body. His bones now rest in our bonfire with the saints of Berenike. _

_ I’m not worried about myself or the other knights, but Dad and Lyle aren’t allowed to leave the caravan without two knights each. Luckily we’ve got four knights and Guillaume, so they’re covered. I won’t let  _ _ anything _ _ happen to my father or my uncle. _

_ Darling Sasha and Eirlys, _

_ Did you find my stash of necklaces yet? I won’t tell you where they are, but I WILL tell you that great grandma’s ruby is in it. If you find it, I want you to give it to Agatha, ok? Not that I don’t trust you two, but I definitely don’t trust you two. Remember that time I found both of you trying to squeeze into my summer dress? The one I was going to wear to the town dance? Mhm. I don’t trust you two. Not yet. But I do have some pretty things in there you two can dress in if you DO find it. Yeah yeah I know you don’t need my permission to root through my stuff anymore-- I can’t stop you! Ha! _

_ OK enough delay. Mitchel is back with us. We found him and brought him home. He was really dazzled, kind of like when uncle Randy goes out drinking, but he wasn’t as irritable or affectionate. Mitchel didn’t try to kiss anyone. He did let a bunch of people, including uncle Randy, hug him. And me. I hugged him. His family actually came by, worried about him, but I think uncle Randy was jealous tee hee.  _

_ All is well again, and I love you _

_ Lizzy _

\-----

The smoke rose on the horizon like a beacon of their sin. Ernest felt sick every time the smell of it drifted in the wind. He didn’t regret what they had done-- what they had done was small and necessary. The retrieval of a kidnapped countryman. But they had not started that fire. They had not ordered the execution of unarmed men. They had not exacted the revenge of a goddess. He had not gutted a man and thrown his entrails across the pews. Had not twisted his blade between their ribs until they cracked and popped. Had not relished in the gore.

The more he thought on it, the more he realized Bernard had done them all a mercy. His execution, though done in rage, had been swift. There was no flourish. Quick death. The Berenike way. It was how he now saw Leopold that sickened him. 

Leopold. Handsome Leopold with his gentle eyes and delicate smile. The soft spoken Blade of the Dark Moon. Ernest thought he had begun to actually fall for him. To grow attached and attracted to him, but he couldn’t reconcile what he’d seen in the chapel with the man himself. Bernard was right. Leopold had more blood on his hands than any of them, and Ernest didn’t know if he could stomach that. Didn’t know how to break things off.

He didn’t have long to think on it before the man in question returned to their camp with Mitchel by his side. The two were quickly swarmed with friends and family-- both Mitchel’s family and Randolf’s. Though Randolf was nowhere to be seen, likely still on guard. Ernest tried to avoid Leopold’s gaze, but the man sought him out regardless. He lifted the visor on his helmet, blood still staining the metal, and tried to smile at Ernest, but the knight would not look up.

“Ernest..?” He reached out and touched the man’s shoulder. Ernest flinched beneath his hand. They stood there in silence-- the stench of smoke still following Leopold like a ghost. With a shaky sigh, Ernest lifted his gaze and shook his head.

“I can’t-- I don’t. There’s-- there’s something wrong with you, Leopold. What happened… what you did… that was inhuman.”

_ Inhuman.  _ Leopold bristled at the accusation, but his flare of anger quickly flickered out into heartbreak. “What do you mean? The guilty must suffer her wrath. I merely acted out her will.”

“ _ Leo--”  _ Ernest’s voice cracked. He snapped his head to face Leopold with the haunted stare of a man who’d seen hell. “You gutted men like fish. Men with no way to protect themselves.”

“Did your brother not join in?”

“Leopold!” Ernest’s horror turned to frustration and anger. He swung an arm out towards where Bernard kept to himself. “My brother did not crack open the ribs of men and watch them die slowly while their lungs fell out of their chests. He acted in anger and brought swift ends to those who had harmed us, and he regrets it. He showed mercy in his rage compared to your violent carnage. Don’t! Don’t compare yourself to Bernard! Don’t you ever compare yourself to him!”

“Those men,” Leopold lashed back, voice dripping with hatred. “Killed one of my own. A man named Samson. A man I knew and cared for. I relished in their suffering for they brought it upon themselves. Would you not avenge your brother like this? Can you say you would not do the same if something happened to Randolf? I do not regret anything I have done today. Except, perhaps, in having brought you along.”

Unsure how to respond and not entirely knowing his answer, Ernest averted his gaze. His voice, now quiet and low, shook with his breath. “If. If something happened to Randolf, I would be hurt. If something happened to my brother, I would crumble. I’m. I’m a knight of Berenike. My code-- the morals I live by-- is. Is very deeply in me. I could never do what you did.”

“Do... you judge me for what I did? Do you hate me for it?” There was no accusation in his words. Simple vulnerability. “It is better that you know me for the man I am rather than the man you wish me to be.”

“Leo-- Leopold. I don’t know.” Their eyes met. “But if that’s how you fight, if that’s what you think is OK… If you really feel nothing after that then… I don’t. I don’t hate you. But I don’t feel. Good. I feel. I feel sick. I look at you, still covered in blood, and I see you hurting people. Drawing it out. Terrorizing people. I smell the smoke of the chapel on you. I’m afraid of the rest of Thorolund. What you did-- what both of you did-- don’t you see that reflects on the rest of us? We just wanted our people back, but you-- both of you-- if someone did that to a chapel in Berenike, I would not stand by and let them pass. Dark Moon or not. That wasn’t retribution. I would have killed you. I would have faced the Dark Moon and met my death for it, but I would have killed you.”

“I--!” Leopold’s softness turned to anger. “They brought that upon themselves! Chandra has witnesses. And you, he who walks in her light, would defy her wishes? Her retribution and anger?”

“Yes! That wasn’t revenge! That was-- You think this place is going to get the message? They killed your other-- that. That other herald. You gored their chapel. You destroyed the border keep. Don’t. Don’t you understand the. The strategic value of that keep? They kidnapped our men, and we retrieved who was left. The fort was left intact. That was a rescue. You burned it. Assaulted the building. That’s an act of war.”

“So are you angry with me for how I handled the sinners or are you angry with me for making things more difficult with this vile heathenous land?”

“Both!” Ernest stepped back, tears in his eyes. “I’m upset about both. I’m upset that I don’t know you, and that. That the man you are is. Is so much more violent than the man I met. I didn’t think. I didn’t know you had that. That in you. That… horror. And I’m upset that you burned the building. Wasn’t that death enough? Did the goddess demand you burn the building, or was that you?”

“Both.” Leopold kept his expression placid and his face even as he erected his guard. Ernest was so plain in his unexpected betrayal. He could read the hurt in every wrinkle around his eyes, in how his frown grew so large his jaw fell open, in his ragged breaths as he fought back wordless tears. Leopold still wanted to be a part of his life-- he wanted Ernest to understand, but he knew that would take time and that this side of himself had been deeply unexpected.

But Ernest couldn’t read Leopold’s guarded expression. He saw it and felt the herald’s judgement. Ernest closed his eyes and forced a long breath. Leopold’s guard had become a fortress he did not care to break down. When he opened his eyes, he met Randolf’s jealous gaze as the man stood well behind the herald watching like a wolf, and a new fire ignited within him. 

“Leopold,” Ernest began cooly before looking the herald square in the eyes. “I. I think you should go back to your work. As a cleric. I need to prepare my squire. We’re in the rear guard tomorrow.” 

Leopold moved his hand as if to reach out to Ernest but caught himself. His touch would only be unwanted. Instead, he simply nodded, dipped his head, and closed his visor before walking off without another word. He would pray for the Dark Moon’s guidance and her blessing.

As he left, Ernest felt his anxieties lift. He’d been wary about confronting Leopold, but the first battle had been fought, and every subsequent one would be easier. Shaking himself, he turned back to his nephew who had begun to don his grandmother’s armor alone. Ernest chuckled as the boy tried to tighten his own straps. “When you’re knighted, Guillaume, I’m going to suggest the ‘Eager’ as your title.”

“Huh? Why?” The boy never stopped trying to get the strap on his back. “Elizavet thinks I ought to be the ‘Inspiring’ or something warm and fuzzy, and I think I’d like that. She really struck gold with her title. The Joyous. I know she deserves it, but I hope I get something like that.” Ernest caught him and yanked on the strap, tightening and securing it. “Thanks Uncle-- er. Ser Devoted.”

Despite the formality, Guillaume beamed at his uncle. When he was in armor, when he was in training, his uncle was his knight. He was Ser Devoted and not Uncle Ernest. Even so, the title came to hold the same level of familiarity to Guillaume. His uncle’s demeanor shifted when they trained, but the man would always be his uncle, and he would never fear him.

Though Guillaume was given permission to wear his grandmother’s armor, he had not yet earned the right to her sword or shield. The training sword he swung in sparring was just as dangerous and heavy, but it wasn’t the family blade. It wasn’t marked as his. He stood with his uncle drilling through proper form and footwork. How to swing the blade with one arm effectively without hurting himself and how to parry when his shield was behind him. Guillaume had always struggled with his form, but he had a knack for defending himself and blocking his uncle’s attacks. For him, a fight was a battle of attrition. He had learned this from his mentor, as both Ernest and Guillaume focused on deflecting attacks and waiting for their opponents to grow weary. And so his boldness and willingness to strike were ever areas for improvement that both he and his uncle worked on together.

As the sun grew low in the sky, the boy and his uncle dropped down by the campfire. Guillaume, having shed his armor, immediately ran off to spend time with Elizavet leaving Ernest behind. But Ernest was glad for it, for he had not had time to truly speak with Bernard. His brother stared into the fire like a man lost. He’d done something he knew was deeply wrong, and his self loathing was apparent even to those who did not know him. Ernest shuffled beside him and simply sat. For a while, they said nothing.

Then Ernest spoke.

“You know… The Storm was with us. In the rain.” A grunt. “I uh. I think you did the right thing, actually.” No response. “You uh… You weren’t aware of what Leopold and that other blade did, but I saw it… Bernie, you were an agent of mercy.”

Bernard’s fists balled against his legs. “I was an executioner.”

“Yeah, well, better you than them. Look, uh.” Ernest placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Carim has an entire goddess devoted to redemption and sin. Maybe she can help you out.

“What I did can’t be undone, Ernest.” His brother turned his harsh gaze upon him. “I have sinned against the Storm, not against Velka. She cannot help me.”

“Yeah?” Ernest held his brother’s gaze. “Well maybe the Storm acted through you. Think. Think of that? They stole his people, a civilian and a scout, and stole their bones. Our saints, left by the Storm-- the saints burned in our fires, so they uh. They stole our saints. And the Storm doesn’t. Doesn’t strike people down. He uses us. So maybe you did the right thing. Just… Don’t do it again.”

Bernard scoffed then began to laugh. “I did the right thing? Just don’t do it again? You sound like Maria.” He bumped his shoulder into his brother’s then began to lean on him. “I hope you’re right, Ernie… But worse than the Storm, I betrayed myself.”

“Then,” Ernest said as he reached to stroke his brother’s head and pull him closer to his side. “You’re the only one who can forgive yourself.”

To Ernest’s amazement, as his brother leaned on his shoulder, Bernard began first to doze and then to gently snore. Ernest held still for fear of waking him from something so precious and strange as sleep. A part of him wondered if his brother had died despite his snoring. A moment of excitement rushed through him at the thought the curse had been broken, but when he lifted the collar of Bernard’s shirt, he could still see the brand. Ernest gave up trying to understand it, and the night passed with him holding his sleeping brother. His hands twitched in his dreams as Ernest kept vigil amazed that something that had once been so mundane but denied to the undead was once again achievable. Sleep. Dreams. Rest. 

Ernest collected another stone.


	16. Scuffs and Squabbles

“This is Georgia.”

A young girl no older than ten with flaming hair and bright green eyes wandered behind Daisy as her knight introduced her to the two men they’d been grouped with. Ernest raised his hand in greeting before waving his nephew forward.

“This is my squire and nephew, Guillaume.”

The moment Guillaume stepped forward, Georgia looked over and scrunched her face.

“Were you adopted?”

“Georgia!” Daisy cuffed her squire upside the head.

“What?” She reached to cradle her ear. “He doesn’t look a thing like his uncle. I look more like his uncle than he does.”

Before Daisy could reprimand her squire further, Guillaume cut in. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m adopted. But you know what that means?” He grinned from ear to ear. “It means my dad went so far out of his way to make sure that I was his kid that no one could ever doubt that I was wanted. It means that my dad was never obligated to have me, and that since he had to work so hard to get me, I’m the luckiest kid to have ever been born.”

Bernard beamed at his son. While he was grateful that Guillaume was so secure in being adopted, he was just as proud of him for resolving the girl’s question with such ease and without taking great offense. Then he smirked and elbowed his brother.

“Remind you of anyone?” He whispered with a wink. Bernard had had to smooth over his brother’s social faux pas much of their childhood. Ernest merely rolled his eyes. 

They walked in relative quiet after that, but Georgia was quick to grow bored and snap back up a conversation.

“How come there’s only three knights? Every other time I’ve gone to battle there were four. And how come we’re at the rear? Why aren’t we with our family? How’d we get grouped up with these people? We aren’t we with my dad and your cousin? When are we gonna stop to eat?”

“Because a squire over ten counts as half a knight,” Daisy began. “And Guillaume is almost a knight. Enough so he’s been granted use of his future armor. We’re at the rear because the rear has the most knights, and while most of us are undead, you’re still alive. Our families are not all knights, so they have to stay in the middle of the caravan to keep safe. Your father and Eurydice are guarding the central caravan near the rest of our families.” She paused for a breath before continuing to answer Georgia’s questions.

“I was grouped with Ser Adamant and Ser Devoted in the rescue mission. We worked well enough together that it was both convenient and sensible to continue to do so. We have until the sun reaches noon when they let the beasts rest, and you can eat something then.”

The girl groaned, and for a while they marched in silence. The morning dew still clung to the trodden grass and the mud the nation left behind in their wake. While the knights thought nothing of it, the girl began to make a game out of what patches of grass she could and could not step on. Guillaume had picked up on her inane rules and began to follow them himself. If there was a footprint, she had to step on it. If the footprint was partial or had a second footprint on top of it, she had to stomp it down to make it one again. Sticks and leaves were to be avoided  _ unless  _ they still had fresh dew on them. Grass with fresh dew took priority. 

Without realizing it, Guillaume had been sucked into her game. It was soothing in its own way, but when the girl stepped on a patch of grass Guillaume had his eye on, it broke his rhythm. She was oblivious to him, and twice she nearly collided with him as she hopped from foot print to foot print. He began to feel like he was stuck behind someone walking slowly down the street, and his calves grew tense with his shortened steps. Guillaume’s irritation boiled over when Georgia jumped in front of him to stomp on a brightly sparkling patch of grass he’d had his eye on. He ran into her as he tried to get his foot there first and, in a moment of malice and bottled frustration, shoved her aside. 

“Hey!” She shouted at him, her mouth hung open and eyes squinted in anger. “Don’t push me!”

“Don’t get in my way!” Guillaume readied himself to get in a fight, but Ernest flicked the back of his helmet. 

“Guillaume,” he began, while Daisy glared down upon her own squire. “How do you expect to be a knight if you don’t uh. Don’t take care of problems before they arise?” The boy stared back at him dumbfounded. Ernest waited expectantly for him to come up with an answer, but the boy just shook his head and shrugged. With a sigh, Ernest looked over to Daisy and her frustrated squire.

“The way I see it. I uh. Well you’re both bored. I mean that’s. That’s clear as day. And you’re the older squire, so uh. You have more. You can teach her… things. Offer to train with her. She’s younger than you. She’s uh. She’s not gonna ask first.”

Guillaume glared at him. He didn’t want to have to be the more noble person in this, and he was already irritated with Georgia. But Ernest stared down at him unmoving.

“Fine…” The boy grumbled. “Hey Georgia, when’s the last time you swung that sword?” She huffed then glared at him. “You wanna spar? I bet you can’t hit me.”

“Oh yeah? What if I can?” A sudden determination replaced her annoyance. “Can I hit you as hard as I want?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, taunting her. “But you have to be able to hit me first.”

Before he could prepare, she kicked him in the shin.

“Ha!” She cried out. “Got you!”

“No! With your sword, idiot!”

Bernard stood back and watched as his son kept trying to dodge the girl’s feet. When Guillaume drew his sword to make his point clear, Georgia huffed and joined him blade to blade. Bernard had seen his son spar with his brother, and he was pleased with how well Ernest had taught him, but pride swelled in his chest when Guillaume took on the role of mentor for Georgia.

“That’s how you hold your sword?” The lad looked disapprovingly at her stance. With his father, his uncle, his grandmother, Elizavet, and two more of Elizavet’s family being meat headed knights, he couldn’t imagine being allowed to hold a blade so improperly.

“Yeah! And I’ll beat you like this too!”

Ernest glanced at Daisy to better understand why the girl was so confident in her poor stance, but the other knight simply looked down at her with a sort of smug satisfaction. She met Ernest’s gaze, and in a moment he understood. Georgia refused to listen to her on this. Getting thrashed by a peer rather than a mentor was likely precisely what she needed.

And soon enough, Guillaume was thwapping Georgia’s legs and butt with the flat side of his blade. The girl yelped each time, but she was never truly hurt. Her pride, however, was absolutely wounded. 

“Come on, Georgia.” Guillaume demonstrated his posture as they walked. “Hold your sword upward more. If you put one hand above the other, it gives your wrists more room to swing.”

“Wait! Wait!” Every time she tried to emulate him, she had to stop walking, and when she stopped, she fell behind. When she grew tired of swordplay, her eyes glazed over in boredom, and nothing Guillaume said made it through to her.

“Uh… Georgia?” He waved a hand in front of her only for her to smack it down.

“Don’t do that! That’s rude.” She bobbed her head and jutted out her chin.

“What? You stopped listening!”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “But you never stop talking. I can’t listen to all of that. It’s  _ my  _ turn to talk.” Before Guillaume could get another word in, she pulled out her talisman, a soft folded fabric with a silver cord, and held it in front of her. “You’re from Kienden, so I doubt you know all your miracles.”

“I know the ones that count…” Guillaume looked back to Ernest and his father for backup, but they both seemed interested in what the girl had to say.

“Like what? One single battle prayer? You want to be useless without Ser Whisper and me? For someone so eager to tell me all about swords, you’re not interested in learning a few prayers?” She rolled her eyes. “What are you? A heathen?”

Bernard let out a loud restrained laugh as the girl called his son out. Emboldened, Georgia began to press Guillaume harder.

“Do you know the Cauterizing prayer? What about the Bone Mender’s prayer? You think the Battle prayer will save someone on death’s door? How about the prayer for illumination? Those are all Light’s Gap prayers that are available to  _ every  _ Berenike knight. Of course, I’m on the Path of Thunder, so I know prayers that  _ I  _ can’t share with you. Like the prayer of bonding.” She puffed out her chest. Guillaume grumbled something, but Georgia was  _ not  _ about to let him hide his shame. She leaned into his side. “What was that?”

“I said fine! Fine. Teach me the prayers… since Ser Devoted didn’t, I bet he needs to learn them too. Right? Ser Devoted?” Guillaume stared daggers into his uncle, but Ernest just smiled.

“I uh. Yeah. Always take the opportunity to learn, Guillaume.”

\-----

By noon, Guillaume and Georgia had adopted each other. She told him about a boy she liked, and he immediately offered to help her woo him. They sat by a cart while Georgia ate her lunch. It was odd having a child around who was still alive with daily human needs, but it was comforting. If Georgia was still OK, then the people they left behind were OK too. Probably. 

Bernard didn’t want to dwell on the people they’d left behind. His mind was stuck on the previous day’s events. On the image of the bones in the fire and the scant ashes with them. 

“Ernest?” He nudged his brother. “You know how the bonfire burns bones?”

Ernest grunted. “What of it?”

“Well, the bonfires at home burned the bones of saints. The bones of people who weren’t completely taken by the Storm…”

“You uh. Are you saying the saints were undead?” Ernest scratched at his brow in thought.

“I don’t know, but there’s something wrong about all of this. If the fire burns the bones of the undead, then why doesn’t it burn us when we touch it?”

“Maybe…” A thought, a momentary connection between undeath and the flame, flickered through Ernest’s mind but dissipated without a trace. “If I see Leopold again, I’ll uh. I’ll ask him. Maybe he knows.”

A sudden shout from the rear jolted the group into action. Georgia continued to eat without reaction while the knights sought out the cries.

“Clerics! Thorolund clerics!” A cry came from down the line, and in moments the knights on guard had raised their shields. Georgia set her meal aside and hopped down from the cart with her sword at the ready. 

Half a dozen peasants charged at the line of knights with farm tools while crossbow bolts began to rain down on top of them. Ernest watched in horror as one of the peasants fell victim to friendly fire, but where the peasant fell another took their place. Behind them rode a knight in shining armor on horseback. The knight raised a sling and began to spin it, and when he let go what seemed to be a stone shattered against Bernard’s shield.

“Lightning!” The call came from one of Berenike’s clerics. Three knights reached towards the heavens and manifested javelins made of the storm. They flung the bolts, striking around the knight and the crossbowmen. 

The powder from the shattered stone reached Ernest’s nose and made him sneeze, but the moment he inhaled it he felt a small stupor come over him. He didn’t hear the call to charge, but he saw his fellow countrymen lunge forward to cut down the peasants and crossbowmen. In his brief hesitation, the line broke. In that moment, a crossbowman took aim at Georgia.

There were several things Ernest could have done that all would have achieved the same goal. The most obvious would have been to simply rejoin the line with his shield raised. Another would have been to merely shield the girl. But while snap decision making was never Ernest’s strong suit, no one could ever accuse him of being anything less than  _ devoted  _ to what he believed to be right. 

He put himself between the bolt and the girl. Foolish as he was, he did not keep his shield in front of him, and the bolt pierced his midsection where the armor was flat. The chest over the lungs and heart was domed to deflect such blows, but the armor over the stomach was sectioned and flat.

With a bolt in his stomach, he lunged forward, caught himself, and staggered to the line. He didn’t quite parse what happened between his injury and the successful defense, but at some point he became aware of his brother praying over him while Daisy pulled out the bolt. He came to later when someone remembered the strange golden liquid they’d all collected from the bonfires and poured it in his mouth.

\-----

The queen walked alongside the bonfire with her council on either side. Runners from along the caravan were constantly darting back and forth from their stations to deliver reports to the head and to her. One of the council passed her a note, and she scowled as she read it. 

“Bring me the herald. I wish to speak with him.”

Leopold held his head high as he approached her. There was no time for kneeling, as she did not stop in her march. He simply fell in line beside her with a quick bow. 

“You called, my queen?”

She didn’t respond. Her jaw clenched and relaxed as she thought of how to begin. Leopold was a man who had her respect. He was a man with a connection to a god, and he was someone with more information on the curse that plagued them than anyone else. But he had proven to act without thought and endanger everything they fought for.

“Herald.” She spoke in a cool tone. “Do you know why I commanded my people to act in a manner that would reduce warfare  _ despite  _ honoring a war god before all others?”

“I had assumed it was because saving your nation and ending the curse took priority.” He still assumed as such.

“In part. Yes. I had assumed that was your intention when you joined us as well. But I was also aware that no matter what we did, we would have to fight our way to the land of the lords. Somewhere along the path it would not matter how self-contained, how respectful, how incredibly peaceful we were, we would encounter conflict. We would not need to antagonize anyone. It would come to us. And with conflict, we would lose numbers. People would truly die.” Her words turned icy, but she still looked forward. “The Storm does not encourage mindless squabbles but rather thought out, strategic warfare. Do you know why I bring this up?”

He paused. He didn’t want her of all people to think less of him, but it was already clear he didn’t follow her line of thinking.

“No,” he said. “Not entirely. But I do not doubt that it is related to the squabble in Thorolund.”

“Squabbles!” She snapped at him. “Plural! In a single morning the caravan has been assaulted five times by simple peasants and thrice by trained and armored men. Do you know why? Because they believe we have stolen a firekeeper and destroyed their keep. Because two blades of the Dark Moon couldn’t wait until we had moved on before exacting gruesome vengeance. I understand the necessity to honor a god, but is our journey not a part of your goddess’s orders? Were you not sent to ease our journey?”

“Surely mere peasants--”

“No, they don’t stop us. Not in the slightest. There are no battles, only slaughter. They do not even slow us down, Leopold. The Storm frowns upon this. But there will be a greater clash with Thorolund, and it will come soon. Then we will pass into Carim.” She turned her furious glare upon him. “Carim, with far greater numbers and holy knights who _ will _ be able to stop us. Carim, the kingdom that holds sovereignty over Thorolund. I sent my knights on a mission to retrieve our people. There was to be no damage to the infrastructure. There was to be no kidnapping a firekeeper. In and out with the deaths of only those who sought to harm us first.”

“Queen Concordia.” He spoke evenly and with little emotion. “Your frustrations are understandable, but I am a Blade of the Dark Moon. Exacting revenge upon the guilty is my primary duty. Marching alongside you and your knights is secondary. I advise that you do not take my willingness to be here for granted.”

Her flame met a stone wall. Whatever Leopold felt, he masked it behind practiced indifference.

“Then I must ask you to be more careful in the future, Leopold. We would not harm a cleric of the Dark Moon, but that does not mean you will always be welcome regardless of your actions.”

\-----

Bernard ground his teeth at the campfire as he thought about the attack. His brother had been sloppy, but he’d never known Ernest to be sloppy in battle. The man was more often than not overly cautious. Bernard had made jokes a lifetime ago about how strong his brother’s shield arm must have been, and for him to drop his guard like that was entirely out of the norm.

Then there was the wound. When Bernard had seen his brother staggering with the bolt clear through him, he’d immediately given him up for dead. A gut wound like that was death. A slow and painful death. If Daisy hadn’t been there with her knowledge of healing miracles, his brother likely would have died. But even with the bolt so deeply in his gut, Ernest had stayed on his feet. Perhaps it had merely been adrenaline, but he’d held with the line as though nothing hindered him.

Only after had he begun to lose his footing. 

Ernest didn’t remember Bernard holding him, crying and chanting. He didn’t remember Guillaume pulling the bolt out of him with Daisy’s guidance. He remembered getting to the line and then… someone pouring the liquid fire, the estus, into his mouth and his wounds healing.

Bernard looked across the campfire to see his brother nodding off. And for the second time since the start of their journey, Bernard felt the call of sleep himself. 

\-----

Dawn broke, and Leopold found himself approaching Ernest’s camp out of habit. He paused.  _ Inhuman.  _ Ernest had described him as inhuman. Had said that simply looking at him made him sick. Ernest… the first person in Berenike to be indifferent to his title. It burned like a wound that wouldn’t heal. The memory of Ernest’s distress and disgust was etched upon the back of his eyelids, and every time he blinked he saw him. It would be best for Leopold to avoid him and put off any future confrontation.

But when he began to walk again, he still found himself approaching the camp. Gods damned him, it seemed. Leopold felt like he was being drawn by some invisible and intangible force, but when he arrived at the camp, both brothers were laying back to back seemingly sleeping. The rest of the camp was awake and moving, having no need for sleep anymore. Guillaume followed Elizavet looking groggy and exhausted. Something had happened, and Leopold needed to put his personal feelings aside to find out what. He wouldn’t let his cowardice, his fear of judgement, prevent him from doing his duty. 

“Excuse me, Randolf?” Leopold stepped into the midst of the camp as he’d done so many times before. “A moment, if you would?”

The knight turned suddenly when he heard Leopold call to him. He looked around as though Leopold had to have been mistaken and asking for someone else, but when he saw the herald approaching him, he stiffened his back. “I have plenty of moments for you, Leopold.”

“I may yet require them,” Leopold said with a small smile. “But in this moment, there’s something atypical happening here…” He looked pointedly at the sleeping brothers. “Are they drugged?”

“Drugged?” Randolf followed his gaze. “Oh. No. Maybe? Probably not. The people we’ve been dealing with don’t seem to poison their weapons. But last night they did come back late.” He shrugged. “Evidently Ernest made a rookie mistake and paid for it.”

Leopold’s gaze lingered over Ernest. He looked relaxed in his sleep with his mouth slightly open and a crust of drool running down his beard. He was a man without a care in the world sleeping secure beside his brother surrounded by those he loved. Whatever mistake he’d made seemed as impermanent as the wind. The herald took a moment to walk around both of them, and he snorted when he saw Bernard’s more dignified expression. His mouth was closed with no drool running down his cheek, but the sound of his grinding teeth was audible even to Leopold several feet away. 

When Leopold finished his circle and returned to Randolf, he found himself yawning. “Randolf,” he began again. “Were you there? When Ernest made his mistake? What was the nature of it? Have you felt the call to sleep?” He kept his gaze on the sleeping men. He knew them both to be undead, and yet...

“Huh? No.” Randolf shrugged, seemingly unperturbed. “Both ‘No, I don’t need to sleep,’ and ‘No, I wasn’t there.’ You’ll have to ask Ernest what he did. Bernard and Guillaume were there though, and Guillaume’s awake. Hanging onto Elizavet like a life raft. Tempted to toss him in the back of the cart and let him sleep the day through. I’ve never known that kid to be so tired, but he’s always been a bit dramatic. Has a flair for it. I wish I could sleep...”

“Hm. No.” Leopold idly scratched at his jaw as he thought. “I suspect it would be best to hear it from Ernest himself. Or perhaps Bernard. Thank you, Randolf, for your moment. I think I will take more of them yet.”

Randolf grinned and tucked his head ever so slightly. It was odd, but it felt fresh and exciting to hear Leopold say such friendly things to him. Maybe, just maybe, when Leopold realized he wasn’t meant to be with Ernest, he’d turn his sights to another knight, and Randolf could show the herald just how wonderful a Berenike suitor could be. 


	17. Llyod's Will

Leeroy, Paladin of the Way of White, devotee of Allfather Llyod, abandoned the keep to seek out aid. He felt ill leaving behind the people of the eastern keep, but he could not do this alone. One brass knight he could handle, but an army of undead knights required an army of holy soldiers. He had mounted his horse and charged off to the west and to the king’s own city.

Now with the news of the burning of the chapel and the slaughter of the clergy, Leeroy marched with Thorolund’s army to destroy the foreign, soulless invaders. Whatever their intention-- whatever their drive, the undead would push no further into their kingdom.

“Sir Leeroy,” the commander leaned over his horse to speak to the paladin. “I understand you are a holy knight, but do remember that faith is not a substitute for tactical knowledge. You are still very young and very capable, but do not let your faith blind you to the weaknesses of your comrades.” The man’s gaze darkened as he spoke. “If you break away from my commands, you are dooming your brothers.”

The paladin, with his face obscured, simply nodded before mounting his pale steed.

\-----

Ernest walked nervously through the caravan with his squad from the day before. They had been summoned to appear before the Queen. Daisy and Bernard both held their heads high-- they had no reason to fear repercussion and had been called by the Queen at least twice before. Georgia was nervous, and though Guillaume was too, he put on a brave face for his junior squire. But there was a pit in Ernest’s stomach. Out of all of them, he’d been the one to take a hit, and he’d been the one to recover. He would be questioned on both.

The Queen’s escort was no more guarded than before. Prior to the attack, her retinue had already consisted of the most competent of the clergy and knights. Despite their deceptively thin numbers compared to the rear guard, the front of the force was the safest place for anyone to be. The three knights and their squires were closely watched as they made their approach to the bonfire, and when they were a sword and a half’s length away from the Queen, they dropped to their knees. The Queen herself stood with her eyes on the flame, almost mesmerized. She knew her knights had arrived, but she lingered still.

“Sometimes,” she began. “I think I see faces in the flame. Appearing in the smoke and dissipating before I can distinguish them. But it is human nature to see a face where it doesn’t exist.” Queen Concordia broke her gaze away from the fire and turned to the gathered knights. “I understand three things happened yesterday: the Devoted made an uncharacteristic mistake, he should have died, and the four undead before me needed to _sleep_ after the encounter.”

Ernest winced but said nothing.

“It is not my place to criticize my knights on such a low level,” she continued. “I am neither your mother nor your mentor, though I am sorry for your recent loss of all them. Maria is sorely missed even here. You are all capable knights who are fully cognizant of your own weaknesses. To call you here to chastise you for that is absurd and not my intention. What I am more curious about is the cause of your error, Devoted. Tell me in full detail what happened.”

Ernest stared at the ground in horror, not daring to meet her undoubtedly pointed glare. The Queen was demanding he explain himself-- it was like a nightmare as ridiculous as arriving to a family reunion stark naked, but it was reality.

“I uhm.” His voice shook, and he began again. “There were some. Some soldiers. A knight on horseback throwing stones. I fell in line, and the knight hit Ser Adamant’s shield with a rock, then the clerics raised their lightning…” He closed his eyes and furrowed his brows as he wracked his memory for what happened. “I… something happened, and then… I was on the line, then I was dying…” Ernest hung his head in shame. It had happened just the day before, and yet it seemed lost in ash.

“Ser Whisper,” the Queen commanded as Ernest’s words faltered. “What happened?”

“My Queen.” The cleric’s voice was strong. “We were attacked by a band of peasants, crossbowmen, and a knight. The knight was indeed slinging stones rather than fighting. Ser Adamant blocked one such stone, and it exploded into a powder. None of us thought anything of it until after the battle, as Ser Devoted had been standing next to Ser Adamant, and the powder fell upon him. My squire reported to me shortly after the fact that the Devoted chose to block a crossbow bolt meant for her with his body rather than his shield. The Devoted had lagged and thus broken the line. He took the shot through his gut in a way that pierced his liver and impaled him completely, but after the hit, he rejoined the line and fought without issue. Only when the attack had been completely repelled did he begin to flag again.”

“And what saved him, Whisper? Devoted.” The Queen jerked her chin towards the man. “Stand. Let me see your broken armor. Let me see the wound.” 

Ernest stood on shaking legs before his queen with the hole in his armor visible. Despite having cleaned it, the fabric beneath it had been stained with his blood, but his skin was unbroken and unmarred. The Queen marveled at the lack of bandage or injury.

“Bernard the Adamant began the battle prayer the moment he saw Devoted take the hit,” Daisy answered. “He continued to channel it even after the battle, and I began the mending prayer. There was a faint coat of dust upon Ser Devoted’s beard and face. We had initially assumed it to be from the march, but then the Devoted’s squire administered estus-- something the rest of us had all forgotten-- it mended his wound faster than any of our prayers, brought him back to awareness, and seemed to erase that dust.”

Queen Concordia watched the knights hang their heads in shame. She understood their reasoning, as they had their failing lay plain before their very monarch, but that shame was getting in her way of learning the enemy. “Be at ease. You have not shamed your nation. Lennox!” She barked the councilman’s name. The knight stepped forward from the midst of the Queen’s retinue and kneeled before her.

“I want more information on these stones and this dust,” she continued. “The stone that can disorient my knights. Red Dust Joule mentioned something similar, and if the people of Thorolund have a weapon that can disable my knights, I need to know what it is. Speak to the Herald. See what he can tell you. Devoted…” Her voice took a gentle tone as she turned her attention to Ernest. “I understand that Leopold is soft on you. I do not know the nature of your relationship nor the form that it takes, but if he divulges anything of strategic value to you, inform me. You five, if you need it, may replenish your estus before you leave.”

The Queen nodded her tentative dismissal, and the knights stepped towards the flame. It was kept in a great stone braiser and carried in a dedicated cart. When the three knights and their squires approached, one of the clergy pulled down the back wall of the cart to form a ramp. One by one, they stepped up to the fire.

The moment Ernest’s hand touched the flame, he felt alert and alive. He stood there, hand and glass flask deep in the golden tongues of fire, and felt a deep relief. He couldn’t quite place the form the clarity took, but it was almost as if his exhaustion was being sapped from him. Like a poison being tugged out of his flesh and into the flame, but after the first few moments of warmth, he began to feel weak. Ernest snatched his hand out, and the weakness faded. He felt younger and stronger, but he had lost the peak of what he’d felt in the fire. His glass flask had filled once more, and he’d accomplished what he’d set to do.

“Careful,” he murmured to his brother as he passed. “Don’t linger.”

Bernard gave him a questioning glance before filling his flask. Only Georgia, who was still human and alive, stayed away from the bonfire. Queen Concordia watched them, eyeing them with interest as they approached the flame and touched it. She knew something was happening there, but there were better ways to get that information than to ask directly. Though the knights before her would try to answer her honestly, they could never be truly candid with her. She knew this, and she knew how to work around that.

“You are dismissed. Return to your posts. We march on the hour.”

\-----

Ernest wasn’t sure if they were following a road through the woods of Thorolund or if they had simply cut one out of the earth through sheer will. The ground beneath him was beaten down and deeply gouged with wagon wheels and footsteps, and the rain from when they assaulted the keep had turned the dirt into a soggy boot sucking mud. It hadn’t bothered him before, but then they didn’t have Georgia growing tired and frustrated every time the ground took a hold of her and wouldn’t let go. Not that he blamed her in the least. She was a child slogging through mud that often reached to her knees, and though she fought the tears of frustration and hopelessness valiantly, they came nonetheless.

“Georgia,” Daisy began as the girl tried to stifle her sniffles. “One of the great strengths of Berenike, primarily of the path of thunder, is how we support each other.”

The girl’s control on her expression began to shatter with the assumption that her knight was going to add to her burden. She looked up to Daisy with both horror and betrayal. 

“And when we see a comrade struggling, we do what we can to lend them a hand.” The knight removed her shield from her back, dropped to her knees, and patted her shoulder. “Come on, Georgie. I’ll carry you until the muck has dried up.”

Teary-eyed, the girl clambered onto her knight’s back and pressed her face against the woman’s shoulder. Daisy wrapped her sword arm under her squire’s leg and adjusted her so that the girl could support herself by placing her feet on Daisy’s tasset. 

A shout came suddenly from a group far ahead of them. Unrest rippled through the caravan and the rear guard as a horn sounded three times quickly then one long, low note. Guillaume stood at attention while his father and uncle prepared themselves for battle. The caravan was long, and their forces relatively thin, but they were knights of Berenike. It would take a much larger force than their own to stop them.

“Dad!” Guillaume looked to his father in panic. “Three sounds-- that’s the third section down?” Bernard nodded. The caravan had been divided into seven sections with the Queen leading the first and the rear marking the seventh. “Our cart was in the fifth section, wasn’t it?” Again, Bernard nodded. For a moment, Guillaume relaxed. They’d traveled with Elizavet and her family for so long, he’d simply assumed his friend was still there in the relative safety of the fifth section. A long sound meant, as far as he could remember, that they were under attack, but not only was no one he cared about in the fight, if she were, she’d be well equipped to handle herself. Elizavet was a full fledged knight, after all.

He was deeply wrong.

\-----

Elizavet stood shoulder to shoulder with her uncle as the stones shattered upon their shields. The first time the dust hit her, she thought nothing of it, but she soon grew cold. Before she could make the connection herself, another knight called out, “Don’t breathe the dust!” Though she had her sword at the ready, it was their duty as a bulwark to prevent their attackers from breaching the line, and when the swordsmen charged, they ran against the impenetrable line of Berenike shields. When they threw their gunpowder bombs, the force and the heat were lost against the barricade. 

She had never fought like this-- in the battles she’d followed her uncle into they’d never been so determinedly on the defensive. The knights would have moved forward as a unit to crush their enemy beneath their combined might, and if the line ever broke, a single knight was more than prepared for handling a group of soldiers like those of Thorolund.

But her father and her other uncle were depending on them. The caravan had halted under the assault while the merchants and other civilian undead did their best to protect the beasts of burden from stray arrows. Even the softest of the Berenike people were familiar with war. It was their religion, no matter if they drew a blade for their living or tilled the earth. Even Lyle, the gentlest of Maria’s sons, knew how to use a sword.

Once the oxen had been covered, a flurry of arrows shot over the knights and peppered their opponents. While those commanding Thorolund’s army had estimated only a fifth of the Berenike caravan to be military (which was wrong from the start), they hadn’t expected the civilians to be capable of defending themselves. Few civilians had ever raised a sword in Thorolund or Carim-- blades and armor were expensive to create and needed experience to use properly. The curtain of arrows did not bely an untrained force but rather an experienced group.

A cry went out, a horn bellowed, and Thorolund retreated.

Elizavet looked to her uncle bewildered. He seemed tired. Crow’s feet creased about his dark eyes. Wrinkles plain on his forehead. “They’ll be back,” he murmured. “They’ll be back.”

Not an hour went by before the army launched another attack. They tightened their ranks, raised shields above their heads, and charged forward slinging stones over the knight’s heads. A few stones shattered in mid air as they collided with launched arrows. The line held unwavering in the third section of the caravan.

The fifth section was not so well prepared.

\-----

Leeroy watched from his steed through binoculars as the footsoldiers charged the wall of knights. The men had lances though he doubted they would do much to the knights, and once again the invaders’ civilians readied their bows and arrows and fought back. The footsoldiers quickly died, but it was not his command who had sent them to their deaths. They were an experiment, another prodding of this great grey beast to see how the undead would respond.

“Bless the clerics, Paladin.” The commander raised his arm, and a group of armored men approached. “Your faith shall inspire their own.”

“By the Allfather’s grace,” the young paladin began. “May you be unharmed. May your faith remain strong against this bulwark of heathenous evil. May your humanity reign over their accursed undeath.” He raised his hand and rang a small chime. A pale white light flowed from him and covered those around him. “Go forth and do as the Allfather wishes.”

He smiled as the clerics moved forward brandishing their cruel weapons meant to exact pain and blood. The morning star was a favorite among them, for if it did not do enough in breaking bones, there was always the lacerated flesh. Their shields would be unable to protect against the grey army’s weapons, but the knights had not yet retaliated. They would soon enough.

The footsoldiers lined up and charged once again, backed by the protective miracles of the clerics. White mist appeared to slow the arrows and allow their safe approach. When they were within range, the clerics pulled the pendants, Lloyd’s Talismans (a divine gift from the god himself), and flung them at the knights. They shattered into their holy grey mist, and the effect was immediate. Leeroy had no way of knowing how the group assaulting their first point was doing, but these knights wavered and flagged, giving the clerics enough time to push through.

The wrath of the gods was a marvelous tale. It spoke of the Allfather’s rage against a group of heathens and the subsequent retaliation of the Allfather’s godly children. His rage exploded from the clerics in a painful shockwave, blowing away their own footsoldiers and knocking over the stunned knights. The moment a gap had been created, the clerics pushed through with miracle after miracle limiting the speed in which anyone could move and blowing away the knights that still tried to fight in spite of the Allfather Llyod’s flung talismans. 

Leeroy wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to charge in and take down the heathens himself. He looked briefly to the commander, then sharply urged his horse forward. The creature bucked in a false start before tearing through the grass to the knights. Leeroy had no way to fight on horseback, so he veered right to redirect his faithful beast and leaped from it into the fray. 

The clerics had not bothered to kill the downed knights in their charge for the archers. They were fools. The knights would stand once more and cut them down from behind, but Leeroy could prevent that. He raised his weapon, the holy stone mace Grant, and swung it down onto the breast plate of the first knight. He winced-- the knights faces were exposed. Blood splattered from her mouth, but even with the death blow she still met his gaze. His next blow was to her head. She could not haunt him if he did not see her death.

Leeroy began to understand the chaos he’d charged into-- knights and soldiers were walking through the battlefield (forced to do so by holy magic), but people were still dying. He’d used the tale the Tranquil Walk many times to force himself to meditate, and he had heard of its use in warfare, but this was the first time he was seeing it up close. A knight impaled one of the clerics-- their blade moved slowly through the air but the cleric was unable to avoid it. They were fighting and dying in slow motion. 

A man, a civilian who drove cattle, stood by what looked to be his brother. The two wielded longswords more capably than most of Thorolund’s soldiers. Their two oxen, brown, heavy creatures, were bleeding on the ground, creating red mud below them. Other civilians surprised and amazed Leeroy with their skill and discipline, as it wasn’t just the brothers that could wield a blade or follow orders. A knight in grey barked something, and another slew of arrows rained upon the Thorolund aggressors. 

A part of Leeroy was enamored with the grace with which the enemy fought. He found himself dueling one of their knights, a man with a massive mace like his own, in the slow motion that plagued the battle field. Unlike the knight, Leeroy was familiar with the sluggish feeling of the Tranquil Walk. He’d practiced sparring in it, but even with his advantage the knight held his own. There was a fury, a pure hatred, in the man’s face. Then a cry cut across the battlefield. A sharp sound like the air tearing apart. A name. _Lyle._ Shock and grief and horror. 

Leeroy erred in turning. One of the brothers ran a cleric through the jaw up through the skull then collapsed to his knees. Before Leeroy could see where the other brother was, the knight hit him in the chest with his great mace. He staggered backwards watching the knight approach with greater speed as the tranquil walk began to fade. An arc of lighting shot past the knight and pummeled into the earth by Leeroy, and he felt as though he was looking death itself in the face.

Four knights charged into the fray spitting lighting and roaring thunder. The footsoldiers quickly became disoriented in the chaos, and even Leeroy felt as though he were in the heart of a storm as the blood of a comrade rained from a knight’s blade upon him. He staggered to his feet with his shield raised.

“Retreat!” He bellowed before slamming his hammer into the ground. A shockwave of Wrath exploded from him blasting the knight and allowing Leeroy and his soldiers a moment’s gap to escape in. He doubted that they had done enough to these undead monsters, but they could not do more if they died. The holy army of Thorolund would find a way to crush them.

\-----

Concordia did not feel like much of a queen. A section of her caravan had been breached. Her knights had faltered. Her people had died. She had not foreseen what Thorolund was capable of, she had not gathered that information from the Blades, and this failure was on her. The blood of her people was on her. She could blame Leopold all she wished, but she had known that this land was hostile from the beginning. His actions had not created this war. 

She stood at the opening of the bonfire’s cart as her people brought their dead to her and to the flame. A knight was laid before her, stripped of her armor and carefully wrapped in whatever cloth the family had. Her blood, though no longer flowing, still seeped through the fabric. Her head and her chest were red.

The Queen knelt by the knight’s side and pressed her hand over the body’s chest. “Forgive me, my brave knight,” she whispered. “May the Storm find you within the Fire.” She lifted the body of the knight and carried her to the flame. It was her failure and her duty. A grief tore through Concordia as the fire consumed the body so thoroughly there was nothing left but ash in mere moments, in a way so reminiscent of the Struck Tree, but the Queen was not done. A line of people had brought their dead to her, and she had to tend them. 

Knights and civilians all washed with honey and moss. All bound in fabric. All fed to the flame. All leaving someone behind.

  
  



	18. Rendal

His people were dying. The knight-king knew how to combat a mortal enemy. He knew how to fight back against his neighbors and repel both blade and siege-- his healers could handle most diseases, but this was none of those things. It was the same curse that had struck the kingdom of Berenike. He had remembered the twisted scar upon their queen’s breast and the morbid words of their herald. First the unborn would die, then the children, then the curse would take all who remained. Unbroken, all of humanity would wither and die.

Two painful weeks of fear, and the neighboring kingdom of once fearsome knights grew quiet. Delyth, King Rendal’s valued adviser and lover, had noticed the brand upon his chest first. She had traced it with her fingertips in both reverence and horror as they laid between the sheets. It was clear now that Balder, which had so desperately struggled to prevent the spread of the curse, was falling. When the morning came, she knew she would lose him.

“Call the council. Call the dukes.” The knight-king turned from the balcony overlooking his city. He had bathed and dressed in privacy, but he could not hide from her what she had seen. He could not hide the brand. “The curse is upon us, Delyth. Our children are dying. There is only one way to stop this.”

“As you wish, my king.” But Delyth did not yet move. “Do you intend to take every knight, or just those cursed? Will you yourself go on this arduous journey? What of your people?” She gripped the fabric of her dress in tight fists. “Will I be by your side?”

Rendal bowed his head. “Delyth… I will only take those cursed.” His words stung like a slap to her face. How the gods had allowed her to remain human without him was a cruel joke. “We will march without unnecessary rest or burden until we join with Berenike. My people-- our people need not fear, for they will have the greatest leader still with them. You.”

The knight-king stepped towards her then dropped to his knee. He took her hand in his own and kissed the knuckle before looking up to her and saying, “Delyth. Twenty years ago I courted someone for political gain. I wasted every moment on that fruitless mistake. You became my invaluable adviser, and you have done more for this nation as that adviser than you could have as my queen-- or so I thought. So we thought. But now there is no reason for me to take a queen as there are no children in our future, but Delyth, become my queen and rule this kingdom with all of my authority. Marry me.”

“Marry you…” Delyth’s face fell. For years she wanted this, but now that it came, it felt hollow and empty. Her hand fell limply from his. “Twenty five years I have loved you, Rendal. For so long I wished to be your queen. To raise a family with you.” She looked past him out over the open balcony to the city below. “I was content to be your adviser. To love you like that. I stood by you through everything. Your attempt to woo Concordia. Your attempt to woo the duchess’s daughter. When you swore you would never marry. I swore, as I watched you do these things, that I would only marry for love.” She turned back towards him. Her king was still on his knee, but his expression was that of confusion, hope, and regret brewed into one massive knot. “I will not marry you, my king. If you wish for me to rule in your stead, then command it, but I will not marry you. Not for politics.”

“Then marry me for love!” He lept to his feet, the air around him bristling with his manic and desperate energy. “Delyth, I have failed so many times to say that which I mean, but I love you. I have never loved any of those I courted, but I love you. I’ve always loved you-- marriage has only ever been a political ploy in my life. I’ve only seen it used to strengthen the bonds of kingdoms within my own home, but I have always envied the commoner who had no concerns. Delyth, I am a fool of a man--” He took her hands in his. “Marry me, so that when this curse is broken and I return, I will have you to return to. Marry me, so that when I return we can adopt a child and raise them. So that we can have the family we both long for…”

They drew close together, their faces mere breaths apart, bodies close. 

“For that, Rendal? Yes. For that I will marry you.”

\-----

“Those of you gathered here and now have been chosen by the gods!” The knight-king’s voice boomed through the courtyard and throughout the city’s streets. Half of his kingdom’s knights were gathered, a thousand to match the army of Berenike, to hear their king’s order. A thousand more outside the gates with soldiers and infantrymen among them. They took nothing with them but the armor on their backs and the weapons by their sides. They would need no food, no water, no rest, as they had been branded like their mountain neighbors and their king. Their children had died, and with them their hopes for a future. There were men and women still alive in the kingdom of Balder, but they hid away in fear.

“The gods have taken everything from us, and in doing so, we are free. With nothing left, there is nothing to stop us. Our kingdom, our people, our future. We fight for hope. We fight to break this curse. We will march without rest or pause until we reach our ill-fated neighbors, and together we will snap this curse like a brittle twig. Leave your horses and possessions behind-- they will only slow us down.”

Berenike had left with five thousand people. Half their nation. Perhaps a thousand of which were the heavily armored and deeply religious knights. Balder, a kingdom with fertile land at the foot of the mountain, was far more populous, but the quality of the Balder knights varied dramatically. Knighthood was a matter of private education and personal wealth. While they had knights who compared to those of Berenike, they lacked the institution to train them uniformly and in mass. A privileged and skilled knight of Balder could compete with any in Berenike, but a poorly skilled knight was little more than a swordsman in the army.

Delyth watched her king and her husband as he rallied the undead of Balder. She finally bore the burden of authority, but she wished she had been cursed alongside him. It was only a matter of time until she was cursed, but as she was still human and by no means a soldier, it was her duty to her kingdom to remain behind. He had kissed her before the aristocracy and married her before the gods. She was the queen of Balder and the rightful ruler, but her heart ached as her husband began his descent to the city streets to lead the march.

Unlike the queen of the neighboring nation, the knight-king’s armor was ornate and intricately decorated. There was no doubt to anyone, friend or foe, that he was important or that he was the king. While his soldiers wore practical steel and iron, his was inlaid with gold and treated with fire to tease out beautiful blues and reds. His armor reminded Delyth of the tales of the red drakes-- chromatic beasts that carried the legacy of the everlasting dragons but lacked their strength and intelligence. She kept that between them, for if the queen questioned the King’s wisdom, it could split the kingdom apart. 

He kissed her one last time before the kingdom. It tasted of salt and sorrow as their tears mingled through the lingering embrace. She held onto him as though by clinging to him she might undo the curse and keep him near, but they broke apart one final time.

“Break the curse and return to me.” Her eyes were glassy but her expression stern. “That is an order from your queen.”

He leaned forward to kiss her again, but she placed her finger over his lips.

“Rendal,” she began again. “I’m ordering you to return to me. What kind of man gets married then runs off on his wife? You will come back to me.”

Her king bowed his head, took her hand in his, and kissed her knuckles. “Of course, my queen. I will carry thoughts of you throughout this journey, and if for no other reason, I will break this curse to be reunited with you.”

They parted, his hand lingering on hers, and so began Balder’s march to the land of the lords.

\-----

The people of Catarina were not surprised when a second nation of knights came from the north. They were disappointed when this nation did not pause or trade, but they were not surprised. The civil servants drew heavy sighs as the many feet of Balder’s undead wore through their streets and when the soldiers were less well behaved than the previous group, but that was not the end of their concerns.

The knights of Balder were not as disciplined as those of Berenike. Try as he might, Rendal could never demand the same amount of respect and control over his people as Concordia did hers. Her rule was truly holy-- it was earned before the Storm. His was holy and chosen by blood. If she died suddenly, there was no back up, no swift way to replace her. Berenike would suffer from her loss and scramble to get another monarch. If Rendal was killed or removed, his wife or his next of kin would replace him in a moment. His rule could always be questioned.

And so could his order to march half way across the map to break a curse they only really understood through rumor. They had no herald or representative of the gods to guide them, so as far as some of the nobles were concerned, he was full of shit. To them, undeath was a brand of infertility. Many of the branded noble knights remained behind under the guise of being healthy, but the lower class soldiers and knights had no choice but to march alongside their king. Desertion was beginning to look appealing as they walked without reprieve through the vibrant land of Catarina. 

The knight-king had no patience to deal with deserters, and he had immediately initiated a very cruel and very permanent punishment. Execution. For if the curse truly was contagious or spread through contact, his soldiers would not merely be fleeing but also dooming the populations they attempted to hide in. The people of Catarina were hesitant to agree to punish caught deserters with death at first, but the undead began to make themselves a nuisance. 

After several vandalisms, assaults, and otherwise unacceptable behavior, Catarina became a hostile land for those who would abuse their kindness. Knight-King Rendal couldn’t help but feel validated by Catarina’s decision to back him.

\-----

As the land turned rocky and the vast stretches of grassland began to turn to forest, the army of Balder reached the land of Thorolund. At this rate, they would reunite with Berenike by the end of the week, perhaps sooner depending on how long the army had dawdled in Catarina. The knight-king smiled as he imagined Concordia and her tightly wound council indulging in the warmth of Catarinan hospitality. The absurdity of it made him smile.

His smile faded as he imagined bringing Delyth to Catarina. As far as he knew, she had never left Balder, and the neighboring kingdoms of Berenike and Melcour had never been on good enough terms with his kingdom for someone from his court to casually visit. He should think that after all the years of Berenike’s bullying, Melcour would finally be grateful for Balder shielding them, but the smaller kingdom only ever accused Balder of allowing their mountainous neighbors to march through and burn their cities. 

After the relatively uneventful plow through Catarina, Rendal had come to assume that Concordia and her knights had chosen peace on their journey, but as they crossed into Thorolund proper, his hope was shattered. A keep atop a hill still smouldered with soot staining the walls above windows and gaps. He looked at it through a spyglass and watched as soldiers scurried about the tops of the walls waving their arms and pointing at the approaching army. Rendal’s heart fell, but he knew that Berenike had paved the way for them, and that they would have to finish their battles.

“Sir Emmet,” Rendal began, turning to the older man next to him and handing him the spyglass. “Tell me what you think.”

Sir Emmet wore armor second only to his king’s. Various medallions riveted into the steel marked him as Rendal’s military general and adviser. Emmet looked to the still smoldering keep and the soldiers gathering on the wall. “They are expecting an attack, my lord. Their keep shows signs of an assault and an inside job. It is likely that Berenike is responsible, and that we, as foreign knights, will be seen as reinforcements for their attackers.”

“Should we prove them right? Or should we attempt to negotiate?” The knight-king looked back towards the keep. “I do not pretend to understand Queen Concordia’s thinking…” He spun the ring from his marriage about his finger. “Why would she peacefully traverse Catarina only to assault the first keep of Thorolund? Did she intend to wage war? This keep clearly watches the border between the nations-- was it her intent to weaken Thorolund for a Catarinan invasion? Did her god demand it? Or were they attacked first?”

“My king, there is no guarantee that the knights of Berenike have survived this long--”

“Ha!” Rendal cut the man off. “Oh Emmet, you are more of a father to me than any man, but don’t tell me such foolish things and expect me to believe them. I am not a child.” The king’s eyes gleamed. “Half of Berenike has marched through these lands-- if they were going to war, there would be nothing left, and it would be pouring rain.” His smile grew as he defended his neighbors. “This had to have been defensive-- the knights of Berenike wouldn’t have left anyone alive otherwise. We will burn our way through this kingdom until we reach our brothers in undeath!”

Sir Emmet wanted to hold his tongue. He’d served Rendal’s family for three generations, and he’d long expected that he’d be able to retire from service by now, but there he stood, an eighty-year-old undead knight, still catering to the whims of his king. But without Delyth to help him guide his king, he might as well try to stop a landslide with his fists. Yet hope or frustration broke him, and he spoke through gritted teeth.

“My king…” The knight-general tried to force a smile. “Might you remember that Berenike treats war like a sport? They do not abide by the same rules we do. They leave as much intact as possible so that the nation can recover, and they can war again more swiftly? This is more typical of--”

“Emmet.” Rendal glared at his adviser. “This is not a game. This was a mission given to them and to us by the gods themselves. Don’t be ridiculous.”

The army of Balder barely paused before charging into the keep and cutting down whatever thin resistance they met. The stone talismans that Thorolund had devised went unnoticed in the swath of death, and as the soldiers found the high that came with slaughter, the people of Thorolund suffered. The keep burned for a second time as the army of Balder dumped cooking oil through the halls and lit it. If Catarina, a kingdom that had been welcoming to the undead, wished to invade, there was no better an opportunity. 

\-----

Grey, purple, and green clouds covered the sky like a horrible bruise. Gold flashed as lightning struck the ground around the two clashing armies as the Berenike line held grinding up the offense like a combine harvesting wheat. There was no doubt that their god was with them. The Storm himself relished the combat-- his laughter was the rolling thunder. His glee was the cracking lightning. 

The army of Thorolund had been divided, fighting on two fronts, for the past few days. At first they had sought only to crush the seemingly impenetrable invaders that moved slowly as a caravan making a beeline for Carim, but before the other kingdom could even respond to Thorolund’s call for aid, a second army of knights assaulted and completely destroyed the Eastern Keep. The second army charged forward unhindered by supplies or the living. This second army of invading undead was truly a thing of evil-- nothing stood in its way.

Knight-King Rendal suspected that the disorder among the enemy’s ranks had more to do with being unable to tell if the two separate armies were friends or foes. Thorolund, at times, put up desperate attempts to stop the Balder army and, at others, effectively showed them the path. They didn’t need to be shown. They followed the rain on the horizon.

Rendal overlooked the battle unfolding before him. The Berenike knights were marching with their shields raised to protect the caravan while the soldiers of Thorolund hounded them. Rendal lowered the spyglass and handed it to Emmet.

“What do you say, old man? Shall we swoop in and save them?”

“My king…” Emmet began tiredly.

“That is a yes! Of course, it’s a yes!” And before his general and adviser could correct him, Rendal raised his sword. “We charge! For Balder! For Berenike! For humanity!”

Where Berenike had been on the defensive and struggled with Thorolund’s technology, Balder had known no true defeats. Men had died, but the army was largely unharmed. The Thorolund forces caught between the two armies were crushed, slaughtered against the Berenike wall and the Balder grinder. The storm wailed and howled as blood was spilled upon the muddied earth, and by the end of it, the Thorolund force was so thoroughly crushed it was all they could do to retreat.

Knight-King Rendal beamed at the destruction that had been wrought. This was the success he had once offered Concordia decades ago. Together, married, they could have been doing this for years, but she had turned him down, made a mockery of him, and suffered small battles. He wrote a small note, then handed it to a footman.

“Take this to the Berenike queen. Let her know I am coming.”

\-----

The councilmen warily parted to allow Knight-King Rendal through. He stood proud and tall with the victory behind him, and a sort of greed took him when he saw the magnificent bonfire rising behind Queen Concordia. Despite his good humor, she looked exhausted. She held her sword in its scabbard in front of her and glared at him as he approached.

“My dear neighbor,” he said with a flourished bow. “It seems we march as one nonetheless.” She returned his grin with a scowl.

“Forgive me for not appearing to be as eager to see you as you are to see me. It has been an arduous journey.”

“Even for the knights of Berenike? Then you must have paved the way for us, as very little was able to stand in our way.” Her eyes narrowed. “This kingdom of Thorolund has some cruel tricks up its sleeves--” He stopped suddenly and looked around. “Did your herald not come with you? I thought that man was following you about like a lost puppy--”

“Rendal.” Her voice was sharp and low. “This is not how the knight-king I know acts. Where is your hesitation? Your concern?” She stepped closer to him, a fury in her eyes. “Have you fallen to the bloodlust?” 

“Bloodlust?” For every step she made towards him, he took one back. “Our goal was to reunite with the knights of Berenike. We took the fastest path here.”

“How many needless battles did you fight?” As she drew upon him, her council surrounded him and prevented his escape. 

“Why would a monarch of Berenike be displeased with war?” Rendal looked nervously around him at the twenty two knights that now caged him in. Surely after the army of Balder saved them, they wouldn’t make an attempt on his life…

“Because Thorolund is not the last kingdom we must cross through. It is a duchy of Carim, a far more powerful political state with the resources to stop us in our tracks and kill every single one of us. The herald has moved forward in an attempt to plead our case, a case you might have ruined. So answer me,  _ Rendal.  _ How many needless battles did you fight?”

Knight-King Rendal laughed then pinched the bridge of his nose. “All of them.”


	19. Penance

The Halls of Penance echoed with the tortured cries of flagellation. Blood leaked out from beneath the heavy wooden doors, staining the white marble a ruddy red. At the end of the hall, lounging upon a massive chaise couch, with two black-clad clergymen standing to either side, was a goddess with an insignificant human man groveling before her. The goddess Velka regarded the man with some interest. Humans were her favorite beings-- they were so eager to sin and repent, and they were so much smaller and weaker than she or any other god. They had at one time sought out a god to absolve them of their crimes, and she had played the role long enough to assume some form of permanence in their religion.

But the man before her with his head pressed to the ground and his body lowered was not one of her followers. He was one of Gwyndolin’s. He had come for reasons he’d not yet given, and even before reaching her cathedral, he’d removed his weapons and armor. The Blade had cast aside his rank and approached her as any other man. Whether he was simply humble or intelligent didn’t really matter. He’d made the right move.

“Standst, mortal. What grave sin bringeth thee to this goddess thineself instead of one of her pardoners? What sin is so terrible that a Blade of the Dark Moon must repent to the Goddess of Sin and not to thine Goddess of Justice?” She watched him as he stood but kept his head bowed low.

“Velka, Goddess of Sin, I sought you out as the purging of sin through the Dark Moon is a very personal affair. My sin involved an unwilling nation and thus turned my duty to the Dark Moon into an act of war. To repent with her, as I shall always do, will not separate my acts from those of the undead nation I traveled with. My sin is not a personal one, and so I must treat it as public.” Leopold held his breath as he waited for the goddess to speak. The haunting screams of those tortured in the innermost walls of Velka’s cathedral began to gnaw at his sanity.

The goddess leaned forward and tilted Leopold’s chin upward with a finger. The palm of her hand could easily cover his entire face, but she was gentle and careful. “Little Blade,” she chided. “Thou hast much to explain, for thine goddess would be deeply disappointed in knowing that thine error broughteth thee first to me and not to her.” Her face was soft, round, and pale like the moon. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders with the black fabric of her veil and dress. “Why doth this Blade of my darling Moonlight seeketh my judgement? What hast thou done?”

“I have sinned against you.” He dipped in a bow. “I have led the duchy of Thorolund to believe that the passing undead sought death and violence, and in doing so I have incited a war. People under your protection die needlessly because of my indiscretion.” Surely, the goddess already knew what he had done. She had to, for the consequences of his actions directly affected her nation, but as he awaited her judgement, he was only met with silence.

Velka looked down upon him with a small frown. She was not omnipotent or omniscient, though she did have ways to sense the guilt among mortals. It colored their souls, painted them in rainbow hues. There was the guilt that weighed upon them, and the guilt that was self imposed. Remorse that coated them like oil. There was the mark of crimes left upon even the shameless that struck across them like a lash. Rarely, there was the brand of a god. When a mortal, or even another deity, offended a Lord, they would stink of it like lingering perfume after taking the embrace of a mistress. 

The man before her was covered in the lashes of half-justified crimes and crushed by the weight of the consequences, but the remorse did not match the sin. “Little Blade of my dearest, thou seemest not to understand thine guilt. Thou hast come to me for thine punishment, but redemption remaineth for those worthy. The worthy understand their crimes.” As she leaned back to recline upon her resting place, a blue light circled around Leopold’s feet. When it fully formed, it flashed about him, and he was removed from her sight.

Leopold found himself surrounded by shadows. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness while a chill crept up his spine. Unable to see the extent of his new surroundings, he knelt down to feel the floor. Cold. Slick. Like polished marble. He tapped it first with the pad of his finger then with his finger nail to confirm. He stood, but his eyes did not take to the darkness, and he remained blind.

A deep breath. This was a part of his penance, no doubt. He was not afraid of the dark, but he did not yet understand the purpose of the room. Velka claimed he did not yet understand his crimes, but of course he did. It was his recklessness that started the all out war between Thorolund and Berenike. What more did she want?

“It’s your fault.” 

Leopold whipped around trying to find the source of the voice. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Who’s there?” He called out. “This some trick of Velka’s? Spouting generic guilt?”

“Only you.” The voice whispered in his ear. “Only you are here, Leopold. Only you know your sins.”

“My sins..?” He turned toward the voice, but there was nothing. No semblance of warmth from a body. No breeze. Nothing.

“You did this.” He felt a prickle at his gut, and the voice took the thoughts from his mind. “Ernest was hurt because of you. He was shot, Leopold. The first man to treat you like an equal in that entire nation… He should have died. Why didn’t he die? Is he even still alive?”

“Of course he’s still alive!” Leopold shot back into the darkness. 

“But Lyle isn’t!” The voice, so familiar and yet unknown to him, screamed as though in pain. The sound tore at his heart. Leopold had no rebuttal as that voice seized on his hesitation and dug deeper in. “How can you hold your head up high? How can you claim you did what you had to when Lyle, the meekest of those brothers, was cut down while  _ you  _ marched with the queen. You hid your face when you saw the body. When you saw the family.  _ He had a family waiting for him,  _ and now he’s dead.”

Leopold staggered and fell to his knees with his hands over his ears. He knew his crimes-- that was why he was here. Lyle’s death was on the hands of the men who’d killed him. And yet.

“You watched those bodies brought to the Flame. The knight so brutally crushed. Her face unknowable. Lyle, surrounded by his brothers, tears streaking down their faces. Elizavet. Stone faced and detached. You hid from them because you knew. Lyle didn’t have to die.”

“I can’t--” He choked. “I can’t face them. What would I say?”

“Coward! You’ve always been a coward. Hiding behind the Dark Moon to cover your tracks! You had no place in Thorolund. No place killing those monks. Chandra’s deed was hers alone, but you dragged yourself into it. You could have stopped with Mitchel. You never should have brought Bernard.”

“They had a right to see their own men saved!” He lashed out, throwing an arm wildly trying to hit the source of the voice. “Thorolund abducted their people, Mitchel was their friend, and they had a right to retrieve him!”

“You wanted Ernest to adore you,” the voice hissed. “You wanted him to admire your skill. You wanted him to praise you. Your hubris is to blame.”

“I--” Leopold felt cold. There was nowhere to go. “I wanted him to see me as more…” His voice grew soft as tears began to run from his eyes. “As capable… Someone he could count to watch his back, and I.”

“You?” The voice coiled around him like a snake. “What did you do?”

A sob broke out as Leopold crumpled to the floor. “I killed Lyle! I betrayed Bernard! He never should have been there! I murdered men and women who weren’t involved, I encouraged the deaths of the Thorolund clergy, I invited the wrath of the Thorolund military, I killed Lyle! I betrayed Concordia! I started a war!  _ I’ve failed!  _ I failed… My goddess, I’ve failed.”

He had no sense of time in the chamber. Days, minutes, weeks, or hours might have passed as that damnable voice picked on every passing thought the Blade had and tore open his guilt like ripping stitches from a half-healed wound. Every needless death, every act of excessive violence, every perceived sin from the present to his childhood echoed through the room. 

A hand fell on his shoulder, and a blue light enveloped him. Shaking and curled up on the floor, Leopold looked up to see a dark figure kneeling over him. The figure, a pardoner and one of Velka’s clergy, smiled gently down upon him. Her eyes crinkled as she patted his shoulder. 

“It pains even me to hear a sinner like you in the Echo Chamber.” She offered her hand-- covered by a black glove that reached well past her forearm up to her bicep under a black leather mantle that covered her shoulders. Every piece of clothing, from her thigh high boots, to her robe, to her half-masked helmet was black. The pardoner was well aged with creases and spots upon her face, but she was strong and hauled Leopold up to his feet. 

“The Echo Chamber..?” He still shook though he was no longer cold.

“Oh… you poor thing… You truly had no idea what you were getting into. Not that it would have helped.” She tutted and shook her head. “I would have expected one of Gwyndolin’s knew what to expect from Velka. Live and learn. I suppose you have.”

Leopold looked around her, confused and still feeling sick to his soul. The room was a small chamber with a wooden bench and white walls. When he lurched for the bench, the pardoner caught him.

“Not yet, little sinner. You have yet to repent.”

“Repent?” Leopold turned to her. “I could spend the rest of my life repenting, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not after what I’ve done. I’ve committed terrible crimes, and no amount of penance can change that--”

“So you’ve given up?” She let go of his arm. “I did not expect such weakness out of you. Even after hearing your echoes…”

“No!” He reached for her, but she stepped away. “There is penance, and there is justice, and there is no amount of penance that can satisfy justice!” Tears burned at his eyes. “I have brought about so much death, and I have been so cavalier about it. There is no penance for that!”

“Idiot!” She slapped him, the back of her hand colliding with his cheek. “How dare you! You dare doubt my goddess? She is the goddess of sin itself! You will pay for all that you have done, and your sins will be forgiven! You may never have the  _ trust  _ of those you walk with again, but the gods will see to it that your sins do not poison them any further.”

“I’m sorry!” His hand flew to his cheek as he ducked away. It had been decades since he cowed before another human like this. He still remembered the cane of his instructor raining upon his back, but the dream of the Dragon School had long since been replaced with the truth of the Dark Moon. 

“No… forgive me.” She huffed. Foreign idiots in the Echo Chambers were her greatest trial. “How could you possibly understand what Velka is capable of?” She regarded him with pity as he turned to face her once more. “All are capable of forgiveness so long as the desire is genuine. Do you seek penance?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

“Then come with me.”

The pardoner led him out of the room into a long windowless hallway that seemed almost indistinguishable from the one that led to Velka’s chamber, except there were no howls of pain or blood leaking from beneath doors. In fact, there were no doors. Leopold turned back to the room he’d left only to see a bare wall between two pillars with candle sconces casting an unnaturally bright light throughout the hallway.

As they walked, Leopold lost track of time. It could not have been long, but he couldn’t tell if five minutes or thirty minutes had passed, as the hallway remained the same. The change of light was so gradual that the Blade did not notice it, but it mimicked day shifting into night. Then, suddenly, the pardoner veered to the side and pushed open the first door Leopold had seen yet. It was an old door made of dark wood that creaked on its hinges, and once opened, the pardoner waved him in.

Inside it was dark. Leopold could barely make out a kneeler before a prayer desk with a bowl of water, a small cushion, and a knife set upon it. With the pardoner’s hand on his back guiding him, he knelt before the desk and bowed his head. The old woman lifted his left hand and dipped his fingers in the water while humming. She seemed quite jovial in her task, but Leopold’s stomach was in knots. He couldn’t quite make out what was on the cushion in front of him, but he had seen the knife. He was neither squeamish nor afraid of pain, but he was deeply unnerved by what it might symbolize. 

“Gentle as a lamb, you are.” The pardoner patted his hand with her own before reaching around him for the knife. “Most people are after they go through the Echo Chamber. If sin weren’t a physical thing, I would think the Echo Chamber were enough, but oh no. I can see your sins, or some of them at least. You are  _ drenched  _ in sin. This is a privilege, really.” She drew a thin line of blood around Leopold’s third finger before reaching for the cushion and taking a ring from it. It felt heavy, but the moment it reached the circle of blood it felt impossibly dense.

Leopold’s fingers curled and twitched as if possessed. He felt as though his blood was running from him only to be sucked into the ring, as his hand and arm quickly grew cold and limp.

“Think only of your sins,” hissed the pardoner. “Or else it will take everything.”

He looked up to her masked face in horror then began to envision his crimes. The pain slowed and warmth returned to his body, though he still felt as though he was being sapped of energy-- of souls. His eyes snapped open as he made the connection. Every soul that he had claimed, intentionally or not, that was connected to his sins was being drawn from him. The tangible souls of the monks he’d killed. The souls of those he’d taken during the war with Thorolund. Souls that would have powered his sorceries were being funneled away. Ill-gotten gains were being purged and sucked into the ring on his finger, and by the gods there were many. 

When his twitching became full spasms, the pardoner reached for his hand and removed the ring. Leopold fell forward, his head landing on the wood of the desk. He wanted nothing more than to rest, but even limp he felt as though he was being stretched like a canvas upon a wooden frame. 

“The goddess has devoured your sins, Leopold of the Dark Moon. And she has a gift you must deliver as reparations.”

Leopold heard the sound of a miracle before he saw the golden light surround both him and the pardoner. He was unceremoniously dumped upon a bed, and as his body gave way to sleep, he saw the black figure place something on an end table next to him.

He dreamt of shadows and dusk. The sun hung low on the horizon, blinding him no matter which way he turned. But despite that sunlight, he couldn’t see the way around him. The ground was made of ink and knives, and the sky was filled with smoke and stars. When he tried to move, his limbs felt as though they were filled with lead, and, try as he might, he was glued in place. 

He blinked, forcing out the blinding sun, and looked down to the puddle beneath him. The hand of a corpse, dessicated and discolored, held him in place. Leopold panicked. He couldn’t move his legs, but he could still draw the Dark Moon’s blade and swing down at it. The blue light arced in front of him as he hacked at the wrist. With every swing, the grip grew tighter until the hand pulled him into the abyss with it. 

Leopold screamed as he went down. Black water filled his mouth, his nose, his lungs, his stomach. As he sank, the bodies of the dead with faces too decayed to recognize began to drift past him in near perfect suspension. There were those he recognized by armor alone-- Joule and Tarkus-- and those indistinguishable from any one else. The Berenike knights, without their defining weaponry, were nearly identical to one another. Nearly, save for a few locks of clinging hair that stuck to their hollowed bodies.

But the bodies did not seem to be in pain. They were not entirely dead. They were simply frozen in time. Leopold felt as though he was seeing something sacred-- something he was not meant to see-- as he sunk into the depths of his dream. He dared not look down, for he knew what he would see.

All of humanity, slowly rising to the surface of a world without sunlight.

Leopold awoke the next morning alone and cold. He shivered as he lifted himself from the cot he’d been dumped on. Beside him was a beautiful ring set upon a small cushion, but he didn’t recognize it. He racked his brain as he tried to recall the last moments before his sleep.

“Reparations,” he murmured. “A gift from Velka..?” He turned it over in his hand. The band appeared to be silver, but the large rock was foreign to him. He would have suspected an opal or a piece of labradorite, but it was a bloody red that made his intestines curl.

It was then he remembered how it was made. How the ring pulled something from him beyond just blood. He wanted to drop it and never touch it again, but he couldn’t. He had a command from a goddess, and he had no choice but to deliver it to… someone. 

Leopold left the room to find a wash bowl or somewhere to clean himself before seeking audience with the goddess or one of her pardoners again. The wing he was in was far more lively, and those he passed stopped and gawked. Fearing that the penance had left some sort of horrible mark upon him that even the worshippers of Velka would reject him, he began to trot towards one of the communal bathrooms. He could wash his face and hands, relieve himself, and then eat. Even if he wasn’t yet hungry.

The singular mirror in the washroom shattered that notion. When Leopold entered the room, those who could leave vacated as soon as they saw him. Those who were preoccupied cut their business short. Leopold, fearing he already knew why, approached the mirror with great trepidation.

But it was not some mark of Velka’s that branded his skin. He saw the leathery discoloration of his skin below his jaw and spun away from the mirror. Leopold scrambled to remove his shirt, not caring if anyone saw, for he was either horribly diseased or cursed. When he saw the twisting flesh that marked him as undead, he began to laugh. Somehow,  _ somehow,  _ a curse that would drain him of all he was was more comforting than some physical ailment.

“I had no brand,” he whispered to himself. “And now I do. An advanced case of the curse…” He palmed his hand over the ring in his pocket. “The curse, the souls, the fire... We are all doomed to suffer this curse, but… are we already all cursed?” He pulled the ring from his pocket and held it close to his face. “Is this my penance? This understanding? The bonfire is the well of souls, and we have been severed from it. Destroy our reserves and we die while our bodies keep living?”

He turned his head up to the washroom ceiling. It was common knowledge that humans did not have a progenitor Lord. Humans were weak nomads that the lordkin took pity on, and through the blessing of the gods, they were given a connection to the bonfire. With a new found love for his goddess and her kin, Leopold raised the ring in his fist to his lips, for the Dark Moon had granted his wish to follow the knights to the end.

“I will not fail you, Goddess.”


	20. The Emissary

“You know Concordia,” Rendal grinned like a fox in a chicken coop. “I’m a married man now.”

“Congratulations,” she said with a practiced indifference. She had sent Leopold ahead days ago, and while they were only now nearing the official border of Carim, the fighting with Thorolund had slowed to a halt. The worst of the journey now had become King Rendal.

“You thought I’d never get married, didn’t you? Or you thought I’d keep bothering you about it?”

“You are bothering me even now, Rendal.” She glared at him. “But fine. I will indulge you. Who is the poor unfortunate soul who agreed to be your queen?”

“Delyth!” He beamed, balling his fists in excitement and hopping in his steps.

“Your… adviser..?” The queen raised a brow before glancing towards one of her council. Julienne, a councilman and clergy-knight of Torore, snorted.

“I am a fool for waiting so long!” Knight-King Rendal continued on. “But we are married now, and when we break this curse, I will have her to return to. And there is no one more capable of leading the kingdom while I am away, of course.” Queen Concordia dragged a hand over her face and rubbed her jaw, but it seemed King Rendal wasn’t yet done ranting. “You know, Concordia,” he started up with a wink. “When this is all over, do you think you will finally marry? I know it’s hard to find an equal when you’re the queen of a nation like yours but… You could marry someone outside of your kingdom… Catarina was friendly enough…”

“Blueblood.” She snapped and turned to him. “Has it never crossed your mind that there may be other reasons why I turned you down time and time again? Or perhaps why I have never taken a spouse? Does the idea that someone might simply be disinterested in such an endeavor not strike you? At all? I will bind myself to no one. Not because I am queen. Not because I dislike the notion. Not because I have found no one who appeals to me. My romantic inclinations are not for you to jab at. Now be silent! Or I will have you removed from my presence!” 

Despite this, King Rendal did not appear to be cowed. He smiled bashfully as he looked her up and down imagining what sort of romantic intrigue could lead to Concordia the Magnificent swearing off marriage. A tragic past? A lost lover? Parents who never loved each other? Simply not finding marriage appealing was nowhere on his list. The knight-king’s adviser shared a tired, defeated, look with one of the queen’s council.

The terrain did not shift between the kingdom and the duchy as it had between Catarina and Thorolund. There was no apparent difference in the land they’d left and the land of Carim, but with Balder marching by their side, the atmosphere seemed to have shifted into something calm yet tense. It was just before the break of dawn with the lights of a fortress in the distance that the knights of Berenike and Balder met citizens of Carim.

It was one of Concordia’s councilmen, Astor the Hawk, who first spotted the banners of the three goddesses, and it was Emmet, Knight-King Rendal’s most trusted adviser, who confirmed a force approaching. King Rendal began to give an order, but Queen Concordia’s withering glare silenced him.

“It is now that we hope the herald has smoothed the way for us. This is a time for deference and acquiescence. We are a wounded beast, and if it comes to it, we will fight and die on our way to Lordran, but we will not snap at those who might aid us.” Berenike’s monarch stared pointedly at King Rendal. “We will meet whatever emissary they send with one of our own. King Rendal, select your representative, and I will select mine.”

Without a word, King Rendal looked to Emmet who rubbed his temples. He stalked off to find the proper knight for the job while Concordia looked to her council. She eyed them, scanning them and judging their strengths and weaknesses. There were a few she would never consider-- Joule acted as fiercely as they looked, and Clement the Trusting would neglect to seek the information they all needed. Her gaze fell heavily upon two knights: Julienne the Bulwark, a knight known for their conviction and gentle heart, and Lenox the Patient, a knight known for taking his time to do something right.

“Bulwark,” the queen said, turning her attention fully to the cleric-knight. “You are devoted to the Storm, but I know you will not let aggression and sport cloud your mind. Represent us as you greet the emissary, and bring them here if they wish it. There will be no bloodshed today, and you _must_ ensure that. Today, it is your actions that will be our shield.”

“Of course, my Queen.” The councilman bowed their head. “I am honored that you trust me in this, and I will not betray that trust.” 

“Julienne,” the queen’s voice dipped low. “I have known you since we were squires. Tell me now if I am making a mistake in sending you and not Lenox.”

“My queen, you are not. Do you doubt your selection?”

“No.” Queen Concordia jerked her gaze away from the councilman and stared at the banners on the horizon. “Defend yourself if you need to, Bulwark. Take your hammer and shield, but keep them strapped to your back.” A small smile spread across her face. “I know you won’t need them. You never have.”

Julienne bowed their head. “I will return to you. I would hate for you to have to find my replacement after all this time.”

The queen smiled as Julienne began to head towards the edge of the caravan. The councilman met with the Balder emissary, a knight with a straight back and tired eyes. She walked with a slight limp as the two of them began to approach Carim’s convoy. Julienne glanced at her before clearing their throat.

“I am Julienne the Bulwark, knight of Torrore and council to her majesty Queen Concordia the Magnificent. My queen and my people seek as peaceful a path as possible.”

The Balder knight was quiet as if she hadn’t heard them speak, and when Julienne took a deep breath to repeat themself, she raised her hand to silence them. “I am Iseult. Granddaughter of General Emmet, first adviser to the king. I am no fool, and I will seek a peaceful option where available.” She glowered at the councilman. “I have done so my entire life.”

“An odd thing for a knight to say,” the councilman remarked. Iseult said nothing in response. She simply stared fiercely towards the horizon and the banners approaching on the horizon. Julienne quietly approved. 

As the pair continued to walk, a golden light enveloped them and pulled them through a fog to the center of the emissary’s convoy. Julienne inhaled sharply and wobbled from the sudden shift, but caught themself quickly only for Iseult to grab a hold of them to stop herself from falling over. Knowing the pain of pride and how acknowledging or offering a hand would only wound that pride, Julienne pretended to be oblivious to it.

The knights were surrounded by Carim cleric-knights and clergymen. Masked figures clad in black leather stood patiently alongside a myriad of knights in ornate armor and a small gathering of what seemed to be mourners softly crying and shifting about them like ghosts in a fog.

A voice, clear like the autumn breeze, rang out above the tears.   
“The Triumvirate of Carim welcomes you, brave pilgrims of the Dark Moon.” The line of pardoners and mourners broke to allow a woman in brilliant golden armor approach. Two golden arms reached around her waist and up to her chest with hands splayed on either side of the domed metal. A black shroud covered her shoulders and part of her head, but her helmet had an open face similar to the knights of Berenike. 

“I am Mina the Embraced.” She flung her arms out so that the morning sun caught her armor. “Chosen by the goddess of Sin, the goddess of Grief, and the goddess of Love. The three traits that make us human.” She looked at the two foreign knights expectantly, and when Iseult bowed, the Embraced merely quirked a bow.

“We thank you for your hospitality in this gracious meeting,” Iseult began, and Julienne quickly followed with a deep bow of their own. “I am Iseult of Balder, and I speak for my king and for my people. I pray that I do not shame them with my ignorance in a land where gods walk.”

“I am Julienne the Bulwark of Berenike.” Bowing was not the same as kneeling. A bow was temporary submission. Deference. “I come on behalf of my Queen and my people. We are grateful to be among godly people once more. It is our utmost desire to complete our holy mission without burdening those who allow us passage. Through this meeting alone and this small promise of peace, we are indebted to your goddesses.”

The Embraced reached forward and tilted Julienne’s face upward. Julienne stiffened, their expression growing stoney as this stranger attempted to manhandle them, but there was no malice in Mina’s eyes. She smiled softly at the knight once they were looking at her. 

“How fiercely you react to simple touch, knight of Berenike. I wonder if your people do not touch at all. Encased in armor as you are, I can barely see your faces. Straighten your backs, both of you. And lift your visor, Iseult of Balder. I will not speak to those I cannot see.” She waited for the two knights to stand and for Iseult to raise the visor of her helmet. Mina glanced over them; Iseult was a woman with a thin frame and sharp features, but Mina had no doubt she knew how to use the sword by her side. Mina could see the knight’s sins painted upon her like one of Velka’s pardoners, for Mina was not simply the goddess of beauty’s, Fina’s, embraced but chosen by the three. When she looked at Julienne, she not only saw the weight of their sins but the tint of the Dark Moon upon them. Julienne was colored in death and war, painted far more heavily than the knight they arrived with. Fitting for a person who worshipped war. Their weaponry was behind them, out of immediate reach, but Mina had no doubt this death-coated knight had other ways to fight and kill.

“I welcome you both to Carim, and I look forward to meeting your rulers.” Mina’s smile faded. “Your herald has said much of what has come to pass, and he has sought out penance in your stead. He has suffered much on behalf of all of you, and it is his penance alone that allows you to so peacefully enter this land. There is far more to be discussed, but that is for your leaders and not for you.” She sighed and looked past the two knights towards their people on the horizon. “The price of being heard alone after what happened in Thorolund is high. I would have thought destroying the beauty of one so beautiful would have been enough, but it seems not. I wonder what more the goddesses will demand of you.”

Iseult caught Mina’s gaze, and the Embraced smiled once again. “Perhaps they will demand you, my dear knight. The goddess of Beauty would surely appreciate you, and the goddess of Grief no doubt has use for someone stricken by such hardship. But I cannot speak for them in this. But! Before I forget!” The Embraced snapped her fingers, the metal of her gauntlet ringing like a chime. “Bring him here!”

The knights behind Mina parted, and a very tired Leopold stepped out. Julienne’s eyes widened in horror-- they’d known the man to walk with confidence and with the bearing of someone speaking for a god. But he looked hollow. Empty. His eyes were dull and bloodshot. His skin that had reminded the knight of moonlight had grown sallow. Even his muscles seemed weaker and softer, but worse than the defeat plain upon the man’s face, worse than him allowing someone else to lead him like a senile dog, was the dead flesh that curled up his neck and over his jaw. It was discolored and shriveled as if it had partially mummified. Julienne had seen it before first with the man rescued from the keep and again among other undead, but Leopold was alive-- the last time Julienne had seen him, he’d been living and healthy.

“Go back to your people and inform them to continue forward into Carim.” Mina raised her voice for those gathered to hear. “We shall await your march here, and we shall guide you through our lands on your journey.” The mourners, like wraiths, turned towards the two knights and the herald. They cried softly, raising their talismans, and enveloping the three in holy light. 

When the knights and the herald found themselves in the field where they’d first been taken, Leopold crumpled onto Julienne. He was sobbing and shaking. Iseult watched in shock as Julienne wrapped their arms around him and held him close. The councilman did not yet know what had happened, and they were not at all close to the herald, but Julienne was not an idiot. Nor was Julienne a cold-hearted person. Leopold had made their travel more difficult, but even after the verbal lashing Queen Concordia had given him, his confidence had never wavered. Something had the power to shake him to his core, and that scared them. 

“Come along now, Leopold,” Julienne said gently trying to pry him off. “We need to speak to the queen. Her majesty needs to hear about this--” Leopold jerked away from the knight and smoothed down his shirt.

“I. Yes. Yes, we do. I have much to report. Amends to make.” Leopold shifted as he replaced his mask-- no longer was he the wounded and vulnerable man. He was the Herald of the Dark Moon, tired from his journey but just as regal and confident as before. A facade Queen Concordia would see right through.

True enough, when Concordia laid eyes upon Leopold, she stiffened and barked an order at him. “You are to report to the bonfire.” She saw Leopold’s stoney facade, the same wall he raised when she questioned his motives, but there were cracks in it now. There was a shine in his eye like tears held back. A lingering look before he ducked silently away. No greeting for her. He had lost something, and she feared what.

She watched the three of them dip their hands into the flame. Queen Concordia expected no change in Julienne or the Balder knight, but Leopold… She wanted Leopold to return to himself. Whatever had happened, she wanted it undone. Whatever had broken him was a mere warning. The demonstration of power in a clear and horrifying way. When Queen Concordia had sent him as a scapegoat, she never expected them to harm the herald of another god. She was, in a way, at fault for him. When the fire licked Leopold’s hand and ran up his shoulder, her heart pounded in fear that it might simply consume him, but when he pulled away his hand, he was left unchanged. Leopold stepped down from the cart and the flame and knelt before her.

“Queen Concordia the Magnificent,” he began as though he were not broken and fractured. As though whatever had happened to him were a nonevent. “I must give you my report on my time in Carim.”

“Put on your armor, Herald. I will not have you address me so informally.” Though her words were sharp, her intention was gentle. A civilian was second in the eyes of the Storm to a knight, and a knight was second to the queen. By addressing her in mere clothing, Leopold had lowered himself to that of a civilian. “Bulwark,” she turned to the councilman who knelt before her. “Report to me. When you are finished, I expect the herald to be properly dressed.”

Leopold had been among the knights long enough to understand the significance of addressing the queen without armor. He’d done so intentionally. After everything, after all the pain he’d caused the queen and her people, he thought it was only right he put himself in such a subservient position. But she rejected him for it. He stood, and for a moment he simply listened to her speak with the councilman about their plans moving forward, but then another knight took him by the wrist and dragged him to the cart where he had stashed his armor. The knight, a councilman with a perpetual glum look about him, quietly helped him into his armor. 

Standing tall once more, Leopold nodded his thanks to the councilman and dropped to his knee before the queen. “Queen Concordia the Magnificent, I have news you must hear before continuing your journey.”

“Better.” She looked down at him with the faintest trace of a smile. “Speak, Herald of the Dark Moon. What has shaken you so?”

Leopold stiffened then cleared his throat. “I have paid my penance to the goddess of sin, Velka, and she has commanded me to seek reparations. As your councilman explained, the entire cost of safe passage has not yet been decided, and--” he froze. He could not simply share his new understanding of the curse without his goddess’s permission. “And there are things I am unable to relay, but those are largely personal. I can tell you that in atoning for my sins, I sacrificed my humanity. I am undead.” A murmur rode through the knights gathered like a wave, and Leopold spoke louder for them all to hear. “The power of the gods is great, and we must not forget that.”

He looked up to meet Concordia’s gaze and reached his hand into a pouch he kept tied to his armor. Slowly so as to not alarm the council, he withdrew the red opalescent ring and presented it to her. “Queen Concordia, this ring was crafted during my atonement, and the goddess Velka instructed me to deliver it as a part of my reparations. I have sinned against the gods and their people, but among those most grievously wounded are the people of Berenike.”

The queen looked at the ring and felt sick. The red stone seemed to shift like it was filled with liquid, but it moved slowly like the aurora in the heart of winter. “This was made with your sacrifice? Is this what became of your humanity?” It felt to her like he was offering his severed hand. “Get it out of my sight, Leopold. I will take no such ghastly thing. Your reparations are to be carried out as aid, not as gifts. Do you understand me?”

His hand hung in the air with the ring between them. He held it there a moment longer before quietly stowing it back in the pouch. “As you wish, Queen Concordia.”

“Good.” She stared down upon him in horror. “Now then, you will begin by returning to your duties as a cleric of the Dark Moon. Stand and be dismissed, Herald.”

Leopold bowed his head and rose to his feet. With the queen through with him, the first of his regrets had been addressed. He was far from finished amending his errors with her and the council, but there was another person, another family, that he had wronged. He would visit them before his courage ran out. 


	21. Apologies

The cacophony of steel weaponry clashing consumed the Berenike caravan. Ernest raised his sword against his squire. 

“Again. We will do this again.” His voice was low and hoarse. Guillaume hesitated. The boy was tired, and he knew his uncle was too, but there was no end to the drilling and training. He missed the days where he ran free among the mountain forest, splashing through the chill streams, and clambering up rock faces. Of his granana sneaking him honeyed treats when his father wasn’t watching. 

“Guillaume!” Ernest bellowed. The boy jumped at his voice-- he knew how his uncle sounded when angered. This was not anger. This was desperation. So the boy raised his sword and began the drill.

Elizavet sat silently, hiding in the shade from the late afternoon sun amidst stacks of crates with a pen in hand and a wrinkled piece of paper. Their oxen had been killed, their cart had been scrapped, and they now traveled with strangers whose names she hadn’t bothered to learn. It had been three days since Lyle had been killed, but even so she couldn’t bring herself to commit it to paper. She started, lifting the pen to the ink, then faltered. Even the letters from Val went unanswered and unread. Tear drops stained the crinkled sheet as she debated simply not writing home. But they deserved to know, and she felt she was the only one who could write it. She was, after all, the only person who could send it.

Randolf had taken to patrolling off duty. The shift never ended for him any more. Up and down the ranks of the caravan, he haunted like a ghost. Visions of his mother waving him away as she chose to travel with another family dragged him away from reality. She chose her squire over her sons. She chose Ernest over him. 

He would hear her voice-- hear Eirlys and Sasha, voices of those he couldn’t place but recognized as people left behind, but he would turn to find nothing. No Franklin or Lyle. No Marigold. Bernard had been right in hiding his mother’s body from him, for the sight of Lyle dead on the ground haunted him with every step.

Hamlin took solace by Bernard’s side. He had never been the kind to drown his woes in drink, but now that it wasn’t even an option, he wanted nothing more than to drink himself blind. But he couldn’t, and with his one brother wandering the caravan without purpose, the only man Hamlin had left was Bernard. A fellow father and lifelong friend. The two watched over Elizavet as she struggled with her words and Guillaume as he sparred with his knight. 

A dull sorrow filled Hamlin as he watched his daughter. He knew without saying what she felt she needed to convey, but it was not her burden to bear. It was his. He looked down at his hands and the wrinkled mess of a letter he’d written. He was a merchant by trade, and crafting letters to schmooze with clients or to smooth over disagreements was a part of his job, but writing home to inform of his brother’s death was something he was ill prepared for. 

When he could stomach it no longer, he stood and handed the letter to his daughter. He had no confidence in it, but better he fail those they left behind than his daughter. Elizavet took the letter, and the burden lifted from her. The stress in her eyes and the tension in her expression melted, and though the sorrow remained, she could at last send the word home. She prayed, and the letter went on its way. They would get no response, and she had no way of knowing how they took the news, but she felt free. 

Elizavet sunk down in her space among the crates and looked at the small stack of letters Valentina had been sending her. Three days had passed since she’d read the woman’s letters, and three days had passed since she responded. A powerful guilt shook through Elizavet-- would Val think she had died? Abandoned her? What could she possibly assume without a response. Elizavet peeled open the most recent letter.

_ Dearest Elizavet _

_ I know it’s only been three days, and perhaps I shouldn’t worry so, but I cannot help it. I will continue to write, as always, even if you never return my letters in the vain hope that you will once again write back. Perhaps you are busy, and perhaps there simply isn’t time. I hope that whatever the case is you are safe. I pray that you are safe. Another army of knights came through looking for your people. They claimed to be allies, and I hope they were true.  _

_ I miss your words. I miss your letters. I miss the joy they brought me. The sun rose with your letters. The flames danced. Please be OK. _

_ With deepest affection, _

_ Val _

Elizavet began to sob, but her father was still with her. When she leaned towards him, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Quietly and with a face stricken with grief and tears, she fumbled for the wrinkled paper. She could, at the very least, let Valentina know she was still alive. 

A quiet fell over the small camp as a familiar brass knight stepped into their midst. Ernest dropped his guard mid drill and took a harmless blow to his arm, but Leopold was not there for him.

Leopold removed his helmet, stuffing it under his arm as he walked towards Hamlin and Elizavet. He was sullen with his hair lacking its typical luster, his skin a shade wrong, and his pale eyes bloodshot and tired. But before he could reach the pair, Bernard leaped up and grabbed him by the arm.

“Now is not the time,” he hissed into the herald’s ear. “Leopold, why are you here?” Those in the camp began to stare, as Bernard held Leopold in a tight grip. It seemed Bernard was threatening the man, and a few stood to back him up on that threat if it came to it.

“I must make amends for my actions.” Leopold kept his voice equally quiet. “The gods may have forgiven me, but the people I care about have not.” He pressed his lips into a thin smile. “They may never, but the first step is an apology.”

Bernard stepped back, his hand still holding onto the man, and looked him over. Leopold looked ill. He looked like a man who had never known sleep, and where there might have been resentment, empathy, concern, and fear of what had wounded the man so twisted in Bernard’s gut like a drowning snake. 

“I forgive you.” He dropped his hand from Leopold’s arm. “I never held you to blame. With or without you, I would have done exactly what I did.” Bernard glanced first towards his brother and son then at Hamlin and his daughter. “I don’t know what happened to you, Leopold, but walk with me before you talk to anyone else.” He glared at the herald like he would have glared at a misbehaving Guillaume. 

Leopold acquiesced, and the two began to slowly meander through the caravan away from the camp.

“What happened to you?” The sternness in Bernard’s voice from before had melted away.

“I repented.” Leopold looked forward, avoiding Bernard’s gaze, but he could feel the man draw closer to him, pressuring him for more. When he glanced over, he saw Bernard glaring at him. “Are you familiar with Carim’s triumvirate of goddesses?” 

“I know of Velka because of her connection to Gwyndolin. Not the other two.”

“The other two don’t really matter here…” Leopold broke eye contact and continued forward. “Velka, Goddess of Sin, is the only one who matters right now. Where the Dark Moon has her followers hunt down and slay unrepentant sinners, Velka offers penance and peace for those who genuinely wish to change their ways. I went to her to help abate the violence that would follow in the wake of Thorolund. I attempted to take full responsibility.”

“Leopold…” Bernard stared at him in restrained horror. He’d heard knights speak so matter of factly about terrible things in the past-- knights who had been shocked in battle, who had witnessed things they could never unsee. “What did they do to you? Why would you do that? We all contributed. That wasn’t for you to try to bear alone.” 

“That was not your decision to make.” The Herald shot a glare at the knight. “I did what I could, as is my duty. If that means humbling myself before a goddess, then I am prepared to do that as many times as it takes. Unfortunately, I was not genuine.” He winced. “And the Goddess of Sin has ways to ensure you are genuine.”

Leopold raised his hand to the high neck of his shirt. He brushed a finger along the edge of it where it met his jaw, then began to pull it down. “And then you pay the price.”

Bernard’s mouth fell open when he saw the twisted half-dead flesh on the Herald’s neck. Leopold closed his eyes unwilling to see Bernard’s open horror. He didn’t want to be seen as some hideous thing. He didn’t want to be pitied.

“Leopold…” Bernard’s voice was gentle. “Do you think you deserved this?”

“Of course,” he snapped. “My sins go far beyond the incident in Thorolund. Velka is fair in her punishment, and I have been redeemed in the eyes of the gods. It is only because I care about the people here I wish to be redeemed in your eyes.”

Bernard stopped and grabbed Leopold by the arm again. He spun the man towards him and wrapped him in a hug, holding him and swaying with him until Leopold returned the embrace. Bernard was broad and warm even in undeath. His grip about the herald was firm and encompassing, but it was only as tight as it needed to be. Leopold, having been without such affection since he began to walk with the knights, began to quiver. 

“Leopold,” Bernard began softly. “When you go to apologize, listen to me. When you go to apologize, you must be very careful how you do it. You don’t want to reopen wounds. Do you understand me?”

The man nodded against Bernard. 

“Good,” Bernard continued. “Do not let your guilt overwhelm their grief. It’s not their job to comfort you. Just tell them that you regret the role you played in the fighting, and that you are sorry for their loss. Your face will do the rest. Don’t tell them about Carim or Velka. Elizavet, Hamlin, and Randolf are not in a place to take on more suffering.”

“I understand.” Leopold wanted to melt into Bernard’s arms. He felt like butter on fresh bread, and with a little bit more of a squeeze, he would lose his form and become a puddle. It was as though Bernard were sapping his fatigue and leaving behind warmth. 

“Good. One more thing.” Bernard held Leopold in front of him and stared him in the eye. “You didn’t deserve that, Leopold. No one is perfect, and everyone sins, but even your violence doesn’t warrant the curse. No-- listen to me.” He shook the herald as Leopold began to look away. “Leopold. I had to kill Maria. I saw what the curse does to people. You didn’t deserve this.”

“Bernard…” Leopold placed a hand on the knight’s arm. “I asked for this. I prayed to the Dark Moon to allow me to continue to aid your people to the very end.”

Bernard placed his hand over Leopold’s and looked over him, searching for signs of doubt. When he saw only resolution, he sighed. “In that case, I hope we all make it. I would like to see you human again.”

“And I you.”

They walked back to the camp arm in arm. When they returned, Bernard let Leopold go and watched him approach Hamlin and Elizavet. He could not hear what was said, but he watched as Elizavet bowed her head, and as both Leopold and Hamlin began to cry. In mere moments, the men were holding each other with Hamlin clinging to Leopold. Bernard let out a sigh of relief. 

Confused, Ernest and Guillaume crossed the camp to stand with Bernard, but as Leopold broke away from Hamlin and began to walk towards them, Bernard pushed Ernest towards the herald.

Ernest balked. He stood stiffly as Leopold approached. “You uh…” Ernest began. “You ok? You look like uh. You look like shit.”

“I am fine, thank you.” A peace had settled over Leopold’s features. A smoothness like a river rock. “I have repented before the goddess Velka, and I have come to take ownership of my actions.”

“What do you uh. Mean?”

“I mean, dear knight of Berenike, that I am here to apologize. I regret my overzealous actions in Thorolund. I regret that my actions contributed to the deaths of the people I wanted to protect. I regret that…” Leopold looked to the small hole in Ernest’s armor. “That you were hurt. It may have come to pass regardless, but I only incited Thorolund.”

Ernest shifted uncomfortably. “Uhm. Thanks. But you shouldn’t apologize to me.” He chewed on his lip before looking back towards his nephew. “When Lyle died, the oxen were killed too. Guillaume had never had a pet, and he took to them like a mother hen… Me getting shot is nothing. That’s just a part of our life, but Guillaume…” He turned back to Leopold who nodded.

“I will make sure to do so. And thank you, Ernest.”

As Leopold stepped past Ernest, the knight had the urge to reach out and grab the herald’s wrist. To touch him gently. But Ernest knew that even in this moment or remorse, Leopold was still Leopold. He was still the sort of man to gut sinners and torture them as they slowly died. He was not the kind of man Ernest wanted to be vulnerable with. And so he let him pass. 

\-----

A woodpecker pounded on the hollow trunk of an old stag. It filled its stomach with grubs and beetles before flying back to its nest and brood. Mated, it no longer had a need to pound on the old iron knocker and sound its territory for the other birds. It had its family, and it was satisfied.

Franklin stood in the doorway looking at nothing. Time did not pass for him anymore. His eyes had fogged over. His flesh had grown desiccated and rotten. He was a hollowed shell of a man. 

A letter fell out of the air in front of him, but he did not see it. A small stack of letters just like it remained sitting on the table inside the home. They had been opened and seen but not read. 

A week prior, two children had run through the home. The girls had been filled with life and laughter, then a silent plague swept through the town, and no such youth was left breathing. Their small bodies had been bathed with honey and moss and wrapped in cloth, and in lieu of the Struck Tree, they had been taken to the town bonfire. Sasha and Eirlys had been among them. When the bonfire did not burn them, the grieving town carried the bodies to the ashes of the Struck Tree and laid them out before the sky. When the Storm did not appear, the undead buried them.

Marigold had chosen her own death. She was brought to the bonfire with her daughter. Franklin had remained in the hope he would see Lyle once again. In the hope that there was still something worth living for. Agatha had tried to carry on. She wanted to live if only for her step-daughter and her husband, but each stressed letter she received from Elizavet only pushed her towards the edge. And then Elizavet stopped writing. 

Agatha still stood in the kitchen. She stared out the window, or at least her body did. There was nothing left of the woman in the dried out cadaver of her animated corpse. 

There was nothing left of Franklin in the hollow that stood in the doorway.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey thanks for reading! If you enjoy this fic, give me a lil comment. I am highly praise motivated.


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